


Strange Love A Star Woman Teaches

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-25
Updated: 2006-02-24
Packaged: 2018-08-15 16:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: How does Captain Archer find love and family with an alien woman? Spoilers for 3.21 "E2." Includes Archer/f. (01/26/2006)





	1. Of Weddings And Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: This story is inspired by the episode 3.21 "E2," so technically it is canonical but AU. So, this story explores how a human might approach a relationship with a brand-new alien species and what it might take to overcome cultural and, yes, sexual differences.  


* * *

The bride and groom gazed at each other as they recited the vows they had written, oblivious to the eighty members of the crew who were watching and listening. An expectant pause hung as they finished, then the captain, surreptitiously checking his notes, cleared his throat.

"By the power vested in me as commander of this vessel, I now pronounce you husband and wife." He smiled broadly. Leaning in toward the groom, he announced in a theatrical whisper that could be heard in the far corners of the recreation room, "You may kiss your bride."

To the delight of the onlookers, the groom obliged, heartily. Captain Jonathan Archer waited a moment, then looked around. "It's my pleasure to introduce for the first time anywhere in the galaxy, Oscar and Judith McCarthy-Martinez!"

After the bride received a soft "Much happiness," and a light kiss on the cheek from the captain, the couple linked arms and made their way into the crowd for more embraces and well wishes.

Archer turned off his padd and dragged a finger around the collar of his dress uniform. He hated the outfit, and couldn't wait to consign it back to the depths of his closet. But Archer had a healthy respect for marriage, both the ceremony and the institutionâ€”not that he had any intention of participating in either himselfâ€”and he felt that a dress uniform was required for the occasion.

This was the fifth nuptial ceremony he had officiated over. As captain of the Enterprise, this was one of his duties, one that he'd recognized but had no inkling he would ever perform when they'd pulled out of space dock that first time, all those years ago. The role of captain as officiant had held a certain historical charm then; it had been that way ever since the first sea-faring vessels had crossed the vast oceans between continents on the big blue marble. Now, however, each ceremony merely reminded Archer that he and his eighty crewmates, Starfleet and MACO alike, were destined to live out the rest of their natural lives on this ship, with whatever ceremonies that were necessary to make the time tolerable, as they flew endlessly through this purgatorial area of space called the Delphic Expanse.

It had been more than three years since that fateful decisionâ€”some, including Archer, might say, "that colossal mistake"â€”to use a sub-space corridor to attempt to rendezvous with Degra's ship in an area three days away. It would have taken Enterprise too long in her devastated condition to travel through normal space, and time was of the essence if they wanted to stop the launch of the Xindi weapon. Degra, the weapon's chief designer, had been on the verge of believing that the Xindi's whole plan to annihilate Earth and all humans had been the result of ruthless manipulation by the Sphere Builders. In three days, they would have met, out from under the Reptilians' watchful eyes, to cement Degra's cooperation, and Archer was sure he could have convinced the rest of the Council to abort the planned destruction of his planet.

But the sub-space corridor had . . . collapsed? No, shifted, maybe. And when Enterprise had emerged on the other side, she had found herself thrown back into the past, by one hundred and seventeen years.

Once, time had been of the essence. Now, they had nothing but time. And all Archer could do, besides relive every second of his spectacular failure, was to try to provide some semblance of normal life for his now missionless crew. Their children, or grandchildren, would now have to finish the job they had begun. There had always been the possibility that many of his crew would not see home again; now, it was a certainty for all of them.

He sighed as he turned toward the door, away from the reception starting across the room. He almost didn't pause when he heard his Chief Engineer, Commander Charles 'Trip' Tucker, call his name.

Trip jogged the last few steps to the captain's side, a drink already in his hand. "Hey, where are you going so fast, Cap'n?" he asked, taking a sip.

Archer indicated his dress uniform with a wave of his hand. "I really want to get out of this monkey suit. And I thought I'd relieve Travis on the Bridge. He volunteered to miss the ceremony; it's only fair he should get to enjoy the reception."

"Aw, why don't you stay a bit," Trip coaxed. "Don't you have to be a stand in for the father-daughter dance?"

Archer sent him a squinty-eyed glare. It was well understood between the two friends that Archer did not dance, ever, and for good reason. "Ha, funny. The ship doesn't run itself, Trip," he said, nodding at some Engineering crew who were already heading back to their posts. "You'll have to cover for me."

Trip, officially off-duty, took another swig of his drink. "All right, Cap'n, if you say so. I'll bring you a piece of the wedding cake once it's cut."

"Yeah, great, thanks," Archer replied absently as he made his escape. As festive music began to pour from hidden speakers, Trip strolled back over to the refreshment table, where Sub-Commander T'Pol stood, stabbing at a plate of celery with her fork. "The captain did not wish to stay for the meal?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"He's not much of a party person," Trip explained. "He's gone back to the Bridge."

"This might have been an appropriate opportunity for the captain to take a day off," T'Pol commented. "He has not done so in more than seven months."

"Really," Trip said, beginning to bounce to the music. "That long, huh?"

"Seven months, two weeks, and three days," T'Pol clarified.

Trip looked at her, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Come dance with me, mother hen," he said, setting down his glass and grabbing for her hand.

She gazed at him severely. "Vulcans do not dance."

"Nobody here will tell on you," Trip replied, drawing her out to the middle of the tiny makeshift dance floor. Other crew members swirled around them; T'Pol could see no actual purpose in their movements. She stood, ramrod straight, as Trip began to move to the music, a smile on his face. "Relax," he said, "a little dancing isn't going to hurt the baby, I promise." Sighing, she permitted herself to sink into "parade rest" position, hands loosely clasped behind her back, feet slightly spread for balance, and swayed infinitesimally from side to side, in perfect rhythm to the music.

* * *

Archer shifted position on the bed and switched the novel he was reading from his right to his left hand. Porthos raised his greying head at the movement, on the off chance that some edible treat was coming his way, then laid his muzzle back down on his paws when it was clear that his master was still engrossed in the book. The door chime rang. Archer laid the book face down on the pillow and crossed the room in three paces to press the door release.

True to his word, Trip stood there, holding a plate containing petit fours and a large slab of cake in one hand, and a tall glass of burgundy liquid in the other. "Got time for a late night snack?" Archer glanced at the clock; it was two in the morning. He had left the Bridge in the able hands of the officer of the watch only an hour ago.

"Party still going on?" he asked, stepping back to let Trip enter.

"Oh, yeah, a few hardy souls are still at it." He snatched the small glass of water off of Archer's bedside table, ducked into the head, and dumped the liquid into the sink. Then he poured half of the wine into the glass and handed it to the captain. Archer eyed it a moment, then took a cautious sip. "Don't ask the vintage," Trip warned, plopping himself bonelessly onto the floor. "You don't wanna know."

"Where's T'Pol?" Archer asked, settling back down on the bed and picking at the sweets on the plate. Porthos raised his eyes hopefully again, and gave a little disappointed whimper when Archer shook his head at him sharply.

"Oh, she ducked out after about an hour, said she felt a little tired." Trip took a swig, obviously the latest of many that evening. "I think this pregnancy is taking more out of her than she wants to admit."

"Hmm," Archer said, not really wanting to get onto the subject of Trip's terrific marriage to T'Pol and their upcoming blessed event. That base part of his personality, the part that envied Trip, had dwindled from a torrent to a trickle over the past year since Trip and T'Pol had announced their betrothal. He looked into the glass of wine and saw the scene again: how his two senior officers had cornered him in his ready room at the beginning of their mutual shift. How he had known, even before Trip had opened his mouth, that the relationship among the three of them was about to be irrevocably altered.

_"We thought you should be the first to know, Cap'n," Trip said, standing very close to, but not touching, T'Pol. Archer studied their faces, one placid, one on the verge of a grin._

_"I take it this is happy news?" he ventured, stalling._

_"T'Pol and I have decided to get married," Trip announced, turning to look at his new fiance.  
Archer, not an inexperienced warrior, fought the most difficult battle of his life as he tried to control his face, to wrestle his expression into one of pure delight. He thought he won that fight, mostly. He reached forward to clasp Trip's right hand in both of his, then pulled him into a hug and slapped him lightly on the back. He turned to T'Pol and said, "If I remember correctly, you're not supposed to congratulate the bride, I don't know why. Best wishes, T'Pol. May I?" She leaned toward him a centimeter, and he enveloped her in a brief hug. He warned himself to be careful; she was, after all, extremely sensitive to human emotions._

_"Trip and I have come to ask you to perform the ceremony," T'Pol said evenly. "We have decided to use a traditional Vulcan ritual."_

_A hundred protests sprang to Archer's mind, not the least of which was, 'I don't know anything about Vulcan rituals!' But T'Pol would have thought of that already, it was that obvious, and she undoubtedly had some plan for his participation. So he smiled, almost, and replied, "I'd be honored."_

_And it was true._

In the eight months since the ceremony, Archer had been schooled daily in the art of friendship, including the hard lesson that true friendship requires humility. So he swallowed his pride and ruthlessly squelched any emotion that was not happiness at his friends' good fortune. Last week had brought a new challenge: news that T'Pol was expecting. He had no doubt he would rise to it. Eventually.

As if reading his thoughts (heaven forbid), Trip mused, "I can't believe I'm going to be a father. Who'd have thought?"

"When I think of a little 'Quad' running around, I tremble for this ship and her crew," Archer quipped.

"Especially if he ever gets in cahoots with your son or daughter, Mister 'Let's Hijack a Warp Two Prototype,'" Trip shot back.

Archer took a larger swig of wine. "Yeah, well, I don't think I was ever meant to get married and have kids."

"You love kids," Trip protested, full of paternal affection for his impending offspring.

"No, I really don't, at least not until they're old enough to appreciate astronomy and aerospace technology," Archer answered, thinking with a pang about Sim.

"Well, I think you'd make a great dad," Trip insisted.

Archer stretched out on the bed and gazed out the window. They were traveling at impulse, so the stars appeared stationary against a field of black silk. "Actually, I've thought of myself more as a great bachelor uncle."

Trip snorted and leaned back on one hand. "Yeah. Except not like my Uncle Harold."

"Your weird Uncle Harold? The one who looks at the kids funny and nobody wants to be alone in the room with? Oh, no, no, no," Archer laughed. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'Uncle Jon who shows up every once in a while, a different gorgeous blonde on his arm each time.' The one who spoils the kids, gives them candy when their parents aren't looking. Teaches them filthy words in alien languages."

His friend speared him with a blue gaze and a suddenly serious expression. "But you don't really expect to spend the next hundred years alone, do you?"

"Well, I have no intention of living to be a hundred and fifty, so, no," Archer drawled.

"You know what I mean."

Archer sighed. "There's nobody for me on this ship. I outrank everyone."

Trip tossed back the rest of his drink. "Oh, come on, Jon, Starfleet regulations don't apply anymore."

The captain put the plate aside and sat up, a signal that Trip knew well enough. He watched as Jon withdrew and became Captain Archer, saying, "This is still a Starfleet vessel, and we're still on a mission, long term as it may be. All of these people are still under my command. It's inappropriate." And, just like that, the conversation was over. "Thanks for the cake, Trip."  
The commander rose, a bit unsteadily, to his feet. "Yeah, I'll see you on the Bridge, Cap'n."

"Sleep in tomorrow, Trip," the captain advised. "T'Pol, too."


	2. Of Anomalies And Atmospheres

Trip took the captain's advice and assigned someone to cover his shift. T'Pol, however, appeared on the Bridge in plenty of time for duty. Archer turned in his chair as she entered the Bridge, and nodded a "good morning" as she assumed her station. He heard Hoshi inquire politely about the First Officer's health, and then the Bridge was quiet once more. Given the skin tight nature of T'Pol's "catsuits," it should have been obvious that she was more than a third of the way through her pregnancy. But Archer supposed Vulcans did pregnancy as they approached everything else—with restraint; weight gain, swollen ankles, and morning sickness would, no doubt, be considered undisciplined and illogical.

Archer stared at the figures marching across his padd; he was obsessed, it seemed, with mapping every square centimeter of this space they traversed. When the ship's future crew were faced with the Xindi probe's launch more than a century from now, they would know every parsec like the backs of their hands. And armed with that knowledge, they would be able to intercept that weapon and save seven million lives.

"Captain," T'Pol said quietly, "I am picking up a ship on long range scan. It is emitting an automated signal, perhaps a distress call."

"How close?"

"Forty thousand kilometers." T'Pol gazed into her scope. "It appears to be trapped in an anomaly field."

Archer perched on the edge of his seat. "Send the coordinates to the helm. Travis, let's take a look."

"Aye, sir," responded the helmsman, bracing himself for the tricky business of anomaly-surfing.

At the edge of the anomaly field, they got a glimpse of the stricken ship, still five thousand kilometers away. Onscreen, it appeared dead in space, except that it was occasionally buffeted by the powerful bubbles that made the Expanse so dangerous.

"Any life signs?" Archer asked in a hushed voice.

T'Pol checked her scans. "One. But I do not recognize the bio-sign." She turned to look at the captain. "It is very weak."

"Hail them."

Ensign Hoshi Sato pressed her earpiece to her head, straining to hear any response to the hail. Other than the distress beacon, all she got back was silence. She shook her head briefly, then her eyes lost focus. "I'm getting something—I don't know what language this is, but it's definitely not an automated recording."

Archer glanced at T'Pol, and made his decision. "Respond that we will attempt to assist. Travis, take us in slowly." The graceful silver ship slipped through the field at one-eighth impulse, dodging the floating, shifting anomalies from long practice. The sensors complained quietly, but Travis ignored them, listening only to T'Pol's firm voice as she guided him through the field.

"Ask if they are able to dock with us," Archer instructed.

There was a pause. "That's affirmative, sir," Hoshi said. "Docking now."

Archer pressed a button on his armrest. "Archer to Reed. Meet me at Docking Port One. Bring a team. Travis, get us out of here. T'Pol, you have the Bridge." He ducked into the turbo-lift.

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was already at the airlock when the captain arrived; he handed over a phase pistol. "It's an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, sir, but it seems that life support has failed. We're waiting for it to stabilize and warm up a little before we open it." He checked his scanner again. "Minimal armaments, nothing fancy." Moments passed, then the go light glowed green, and the door slid open. Triggering the hatch of the docked ship, the captain waited for the security officer to signal clear, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

The ship was small, about twice the size of one of Enterprise's shuttle pods. It was dark and cold, whether to conserve energy or because whatever species it belong to thrived in these conditions, Archer didn't know. He shivered a little and switched on the flashlight Reed handed him.

At first, they didn't see the pilot because it was slumped across the navigational console, hidden by a high-backed seat, unconscious. Reed noticed a set of long, tapered fingers trailing on the deck, next to a discarded glove. Their owner was encased in what was clearly an environmental suit, its face hidden by a helmet. Reed scanned the body and nodded to the captain.  
"He's alive, barely."

"Archer to Phlox."

"Yes, Captain."

"Report to the docking bay. We have a guest in need of your services."

Only after the doctor had scanned the pilot, and had found no obvious biological hazards, was the alien moved to a stretcher and taken to Sickbay for examination. Reed and his security team were left on the ship to explore and try to determine who and what this creature was.

In Sickbay, the doctor arranged the alien on a bio-bed and proceeded to remove the helmet of the environmental suit. The first thing the captain noticed was the long, fine hair that draped over the edge of the bed. It was silvery-white of a shade he'd never seen before. The alien's eyes were closed but it—he? she?—gasped sharply. The screens above the bed began to beat and fluctuate wildly.

"Will it live?" Archer asked, unable to take his eyes off the alien.

The doctor nodded confidently. "Well, she's almost suffocated in this EV suit. See, the air tank is just about on empty. I'll have to super-oxygenate her before she goes into shock."

"What is it—she? I mean, do you recognize this species?"

"Hmmm," Phlox said, studying the readings. "I don't think I've come across her kind before, but I'm not sure. I'll need to compare this anatomy to the Interspecies Medical Exchange Database." He concentrated on his scans, adding absently, "I'll let you know when she regains consciousness, Captain."

"Take your time, Doc," Archer said, inching backward toward the door. "Keep me updated." He nodded to the security guard, indicating that she should maintain her position.

Two days later, a MACO corporal rang the chime of the conference room, and escorted the alien inside.

The first thing Archer noticed about the visitor was that her face seemed odd. It wasn't the delicate ridge that formed the bridge of her nose, nor the contrast of the silvery-white hair and the slightly lavender tinged skin. Then it hit him. The alien had no eyebrows. Somehow, this made her black-irised eyes seem enormous. She was of average height, by human standards, about five feet seven, with a short torso and very long arms and legs. She was dressed in clothing the security officers had retrieved from her ship: a brown-gold blouse made of soft material, and black, loose fitting pants. Her shoes reminded Archer of traditional handmade Native American moccasins.

Hoshi smiled encouragingly as the alien walked into the room and was seated. She had already engaged in a few short conversations with the alien, trying to incorporate the alien's language into the Universal Translator, with mixed results. She glanced at her translator screen and said a few words in the alien's language, then indicated with her hand that the alien should speak.  
She did, and the sound, to Archer, was like water being poured into a crystal goblet. He couldn't tell where one word ended and another began; there were no pauses. Hoshi nodded some more, receptively, until the translator began to emit words, then whole sentences.

"-Trying to locate my ship." She stopped, hearing the English translation, and looked around the table.

Archer leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. "My name's Captain Jonathan Archer, and you're on the starship Enterprise." He gestured around the table. "This is my First Officer, Sub-Commander T'Pol; my Tactical Officer, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed; and you've already met my Communications Officer, Ensign Hoshi Sato."

The alien's first question did not come as a surprise. "What kind of creature are you?"

"I'm human; I come from a planet called Earth." There was such a long, puzzled pause that Archer began to think the UT was not working. He looked at Hoshi, who shrugged.

Finally, the alien said. "I am Esilia-lavaoss-saanaa. I am Ikaaran. I am a scout for the vessel Tanaar."

T'Pol took over the interview, her measured tones neither threatening nor curious. "Your scout ship is docked with us. We found you in an anomaly field. You sent a distress call. Do you remember that?"

Esilia said, "I remember finally getting a response to my signal, but not much after that."

"How did you get trapped in the field?" T'Pol asked.

"I was scouting for trinium deposits, which is -" Esilia stopped, as if unsure how much to reveal to these strangers. "I was supposed to rendezvous with the Tanaar in eight—" here she used a word that sounded like a gargle. "When I got to the rendezvous site, there was no sign of the Tanaar. I waited, then I began a search, tracing their anticipated course. I began to run out of food, then fuel. I shut my non-essential systems down, and then most of the essential ones. That was a mistake, apparently, because I started to drift. I was caught up in the anomaly field, and had no thrusters; I couldn't get out. So there I stayed until you rescued me." She turned large black eyes to the captain. "I thank you."

"You're welcome," Archer responded. "How long were you out there?"

"The Tanaar was due to meet me seventy-one _laoggaoal_ ago." There was that gargle-word again.  
Archer looked helplessly to Hoshi for a translation, since the UT seemed disinclined to try.

"It's a time measure, sir," Hoshi explained. "Seventy-one of them works out to ninety-six Earth standard days."

Archer turned to Reed, who confirmed, "Sir, that's consistent with the ship's logs."

Esilia bristled. "You read my logs?"

"Of course we did," Archer answered mildly. Hoshi had had little trouble deciphering the Ikaaran's written language.

"Then what was the point of this conversation?" she asked, sounding irritated.

Archer smiled thinly. "To see if you'd lie." They stared at each other for a few uncomfortable moments, the alien obviously angry at the presumption of these humans, the captain daring her silently to complain. Finally, Esilia said stiffly, "I have told you the truth. I have nothing to hide."

"Hmm," Archer replied noncommittally. "My medical officer says you have recovered fairly well. Is this environment comfortable for you?"

Esilia thought for a moment. "Your air is thirsty, and it's very cold in here," she answered truthfully.

T'Pol responded, "It would be simple enough to adjust the environmental controls in your quarters to something you can tolerate. The rest of the ship must remain at human normal, but the quartermaster can provide you with additional clothing." In her years on Earth and on Enterprise, T'Pol had become accustomed to the cooler temperature favored by humans; the ship was maintained even a few degrees lower than the average San Francisco climate. The crew wore layers of clothing to compensate; she herself was grateful that her own clothes were thermal in nature, otherwise she, too, would be freezing all the time. The captain had allowed her to keep her quarters at a higher temperature than the rest of the ship, closer to but not as high as the heat of Vulcan, for her own comfort and general health.

"My Chief Engineer tells me that many of your ship's systems are badly in need of repair," Archer went on. "With your permission, I'll have a team start on that right away."

"The anomalies damaged most of my sensors."

"That," Archer agreed, "plus the fact that, without life support, the temperature inside of your ship was heading towards absolute zero. The systems that weren't damaged in the anomaly field gave out because of the cold."

The alien flexed her right hand, which had been exposed to the extreme cold when she'd taken off her EV glove to manipulate the docking controls. "I would appreciate any repairs your team could make."

The captain stood, and offered a more sincere smile. "You are welcome to stay aboard as our guest. As I said, we're happy to make whatever repairs to your ship that we can. And we'll do our best to locate the Tanaar. You can have access to the public areas of the ship. There are restricted areas, however, where you can't go. Please respect them. The MACOs will detain you if you wander into unauthorized areas. Or, they may just shoot you," he added, still smiling. "Let us know if there's anything you need. T'Pol, I'll see you on the Bridge." He nodded to the group and left.

As he strode down the corridors toward the Bridge, Archer reflected that he may have seemed a bit harsh with the Ikaaran. Maybe it was her challenging manner that made him want to push back and establish his authority. He hoped not; that'd be childish. Perhaps it was only that he had finally learned his lesson about letting strangers roam at will throughout the ship. His navet had cost the life of an innocent crewmember, blown away by a suicide bomber. And his distraction by yet another beautiful alien had led to the creation of the biological weapon now locked in Daniels' quarters. It had taken both tampering with time and sheer luck to avoid . . .

Whoa. Yet another beautiful alien? Where the hell had that come from? _Don't even think about it,_ Archer chastised himself, shaking his head. _Being attracted to alien women never works out for you. In fact, your track record sucks._ He walked faster, trying to escape his ridiculous, dangerous thoughts.

He cruised through the Bridge, pausing long enough to make sure that the ship's status was normal, then ducked into his Ready Room. He called up his latest mapping data. Wrapping his mind around astrometric calculations always worked to banish a certain Vulcan from his brain; no reason it shouldn't work for the Ikaaran as well. But no matter how hard he stared at the screen of his computer, he could only see the large, black, browless eyes of the visitor.


	3. Of Conversations And Confessions

Three days later, there was still no sign of the Tanaar. T'Pol had taken on the assignment of searching for any sign of the Ikaaran ship on long range scans. Fully recovered, Esilia worked alongside the Vulcan in the Command Center, updating maps and filling in information from her own ship's databases. As a scout on her small ship, she had traveled extensively in the Expanse, and was willing to supplement Enterprise's data as partial payment for the starship's hospitality.

Plus, she felt comfortable in the Vulcan's company. She was sure the human crew did not mean to stare at her, but stare they did. Having been briefed on their original mission, and understanding the predicament they found themselves in, she could not fault them, really, for their suspicion. Truly, given the sheer number of hostile beings Enterprise had encountered, she was astonished that the crew had not simply left her in her frozen tomb and headed in the other direction. She mentioned as much to T'Pol.

The First Officer continued working as she answered carefully, "Humans have certain innate characteristics; compassion is one of them. It would be vastly out of character for them to leave a person, even a stranger, in distress, if they believe they have the capacity to assist." She glanced at Esilia briefly, then back to her task. "I do not believe I have ever known Captain Archer to ignore a call for help."

Esilia studied her. "You don't approve," she observed.

"It isn't for me to approve or disapprove," T'Pol responded. "He is the captain and it is up to him to make those decisions." She paused. "Humans are different from Vulcans. My people determine their actions through logic; emotions do not come into play in the decision-making process. Humans are guided by their inner feelings."

"He risked his ship to rescue me," Esilia pointed out. "It seems humans use very little logic, if any."

T'Pol felt a tingle of annoyance. "Captain Archer believes that all life is of value. If he can preserve it, he will." She thought briefly about that first mission, when the captain had come back for her, under heavy Suliban fire, and had been wounded for his effort. "Had he determined that the risk to the ship was too great, I am sure he would have left you where you were," she added pointedly.

"You defend him," Esilia said, "even though his actions were not precisely logical. Is he your mate?"

T'Pol was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. She allowed her eyebrows to climb up a millimeter, indicating without words how rude she thought the intrusion was. The Ikaaran just stared at her, waiting for an answer. Finally, T'Pol said, "He is not. I am married to another."

"Another human."

The Vulcan sighed. "Yes. Commander Tucker." Was there no limit to this creature's discourtesy?

"And you do not find it difficult to cope with the humans' lack of logic?" Esilia pressed.

T'Pol found that she was gripping her padd tightly and set it down. "I did not say that humans lacked logic," she said carefully, "only that they use their emotions to make decisions as well. Does Captain Archer seem to you an illogical person?"

Esilia shrugged, a gesture she had picked up from her new friend Hoshi and had decided she liked. "I have not spoken to or seen Captain Archer since our first conversation," she answered, "so I could not say."

Whatever T'Pol would have replied was lost, as the door to the Command Center opened, and the object of their discussion stepped in. To the Vulcan's eye, it seemed as if Captain Archer hesitated briefly before crossing the room, coming at last to stand before the large screen displaying the map in progress. He greeted them both politely, then began to transfer calculations from his padd to the main computer.

The three continued to work in silence, itself a strange occurrence, given the captain's penchant for using "small talk" to help himself concentrate. From time to time, he would glance over at the Ikaaran with an expression that T'Pol could not quite identify.  
Esilia eventually broke the silence. "Your measurement is wrong." Archer stopped tapping on the console buttons and looked up. "That one," Esilia clarified, pointing. "It should be ten thousand two hundred kilometers between the first and second planets, not eleven thousand four hundred twenty. It throws that whole system off." She entered the correct measurement, and the map re-oriented itself slightly.

Archer decided to be big about it, and to ignore her abrasive manner. "Thanks. I don't think I would have picked that up." He went back to his work.

After a moment, a thought occurred to him and he looked up. "Is your planet, Ikaar, anywhere on this map?"

Esilia drew close and peered at the image, studying it, then pointed with a long finger toward the outer edge of the map. "Ikaar is approximately sixteen light years from our current position," she said. "If this star chart were complete, it would be the fifth planet in this system."

Archer leaned in as well, fingers playing across the controls to magnify the binary system she indicated. As he drew his hand away, it brushed against hers. A tingle, not unlike a low electrical charge, buzzed up his arm. He snatched his hand back and stared at it.

Esilia seemed not to notice. "We call those stars Dar and Falor. Of the nine planets in their orbit, only four are inhabited. Ikaar is the main world; the other three are colonies."

Archer moved a pace away, trying not to be obvious about it. The odd sensation in his hand gradually faded. "Uh, you're very far from home, then," he observed just to say something as he rubbed his fingertips together.

The Ikaaran nodded. "Our natural resources are thin, so we have long range ships like the Tanaar for scouting and trade." She went on in this vein, but Archer missed most of it. He found himself increasingly fascinated by her hair, the long, shiny fall of it swept over her left shoulder. Almost of its own accord, his hand floated up to touch the silky silver strands. He caught himself abruptly, and for the second time in less than a minute, pulled it back to his side. What the hell am I doing? And T'Pol's just a few feet away. Get control of yourself, Jon. He took a deep breath.

"Can you show me your world?" Esilia asked, interrupting his train of thought. "I have visited many planets, but I have not heard of one called Earth. How far away is it?"

"About ninety light-years," Archer responded, and, with a few key clicks, called up a picture he had avoided looking at for the past several years: the Sol system. "That's our sun, and the third planet in is Earth."

Most non-humans commented about the blueness of the planet, or noticed the cloud cover. Not Esilia. "It's tiny," she said. "No wonder you took to the stars."

Archer bit back a terse response. Since the realization that he would never see his home world again had sunk in, he found himself peculiarly defensive about Earth. Any criticism, real or perceived, of the planet or her people stung. All irritation vanished, though, when Esilia pointed to the sixth planet in the system. "I believe that must be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," she said. "Tell me about that planet."

The conversation started with the vital statistics of Saturn, then moved on to the characteristics of the other members of the Sol system, in such excruciating detail that T'Pol eventually lost interest completely and excused herself from the room. The topic swerved back to Earth, and Archer found himself peppered with questions on subjects ranging from its diverse population to its extreme climate differences to its literature and music.

A famous author, Archer couldn't remember the name, once wrote an essay purporting to examine the "essential characteristics" of both humans and Vulcans. She concluded that humans were defined by their "sense of adventure" and their "limitless capacity to love, whether selfishly or unconditionally." Vulcans, on the other hand, were consumed with the need to eliminate the extraneous. "Even the art and music of Vulcan," the author supposed, "are pared down to logical necessity." Having grown up among both humans and Vulcans, and having spent the last six years in close quarters on Enterprise, Archer had decided the author was full of crap.

If the author had ever met Esilia, she may have deduced that the "essential characteristics" of Ikaarans were curiosity and bluntness, or as Archer might have described them that day, nosiness and total lack of tact. By the time he left the Command Center, after a blessedly welcome inquiry from the Bridge, it was two hours later, and he felt as if he had been grilled like a doctoral candidate defending his thesis. But as he made his way to the Bridge, he lifted his hand to his face. The smell of the Ikaaran's perfume—if aliens even wore perfume—clung to his skin.

The captain was tense and uncomfortable around the Ikaaran, T'Pol reflected later, resting in her quarters. She found that odd for the usually open-minded captain, which was the only reason she mentioned it to Trip. Her husband agreed that it was not like Jon to avoid or ignore a guest on the ship. That led to an off-handed comm inquiry regarding dinner that night. The captain, tired of eating off a tray in his Ready Room, invited his First Officer and his Chief Engineer for a meal in the Captain's Mess. On the heels of that invitation, Trip suggested including their Ikaaran guest. Thoroughly boxed in, the captain acquiesced, saving his groan until after the comm had been shut off.

Which was how the captain found himself seated directly across the table from Esilia in the tiny dining room, flanked by T'Pol and Trip on either side, trying to make casual conversation. He listened with amusement as Trip tried to coax T'Pol to put more food on her plate. "The baby needs the calories," Trip said finally.

T'Pol stared at her husband for a moment, then placed another few carrot sticks on the dish.  
"That was easy," the engineer commented, surprised. "You usually put up a bigger fight."

"It occurred to me," T'Pol replied, deadpan, "that I should yield to your judgment."

Trip eyed her suspiciously. "Really."

The Vulcan nodded. "Indeed, since you have significantly more experience being pregnant than I do at this stage." Archer rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to hide a smile. T'Pol speared a single carrot stick and placed it delicately into her mouth.

As T'Pol, like most Vulcans, was disinclined to carry on a conversation over a meal, and Trip always pouted whenever he was reminded of his accidental pregnancy, the conversation reached a lull.

Fortunately, Esilia was a talker. The three officers learned a great deal about Ikaar. The planet's climate was as hot as Vulcan's, but with nearly ninety-eight percent humidity all the time. There had not been a war or armed conflict on Ikaar in living memory, which allowed Ikaarans to concentrate on space flight and exploration. Esilia explained that, as a single female, she was encouraged to serve aboard an exploratory vessel like the Tanaar, until she was of an ideal age to marry. That age, she confided, had come and gone, and she had no intention of giving up space travel, despite the increasingly impatient messages she received from her family.

"Of course, until the Tanaar is located, I have a little peace from them," she finished, studying the pile of petite green peas on her plate. She looked around the table under cover of her long lashes, trying to determine how she was supposed to get the tiny things from her plate to her mouth with the instruments provided. "You are not mated to anyone, Captain Archer?" she asked, finally following Trip's lead and stabbing a few of the peas with the multi-pronged metal stick.

The captain froze with a mouthful of iced tea, forced himself to swallow, and slowly placed his glass down before answering. "No, I'm not."

"You are quite old to be unmated, aren't you?" Esilia's expression was innocent.

Archer gave a ghost of a smile. "I suppose. Not everyone marries, though. It's just not in the cards for me."

Esilia's forehead creased at the unfamiliar turn of phrase, an interesting effect, since she had no eyebrows. "You do not consider it a good example to set as a captain, taking a mate?"

Archer glared at T'Pol, then Trip, but got no help from either quarter. Trip, especially, seemed to find his mashed potatoes suddenly fascinating and amusing. "Well, first of all," the captain answered, "humans choose 'spouses,' not 'mates.' We leave mating to the animal kingdom. And secondly, there are regulations against, er, fraternizing with people you command. So there really aren't any options for me, since I command everyone on the ship."

The Ikaaran seemed every bit as skeptical of this reason as Trip had. "There are plenty of cargo ships and other vessels whose captains, er, take spouses and have families. The Tanaar's captain has several children."

Archer coughed. "Well, this ship is quasi-military, at least in terms of rank. It would be difficult to avoid undue favoritism. I need to know that I can make unbiased decisions, especially if we're engaged in battle."

"But you have not had a battle in several years, true?"

Trip shifted in his seat. Archer was getting that hunted look, the one that said he wouldn't mind a Tactical Alert right about now. Trip knew that no matter how uncomfortable the conversation got, the captain would continue to extend every courtesy to his guest. Even Captain Vanik, the Vulcan to whom Trip would award Most Obnoxiously Rude Person In The Galaxy status, had had the benefit of Archer's civility right to the end of that infamous dinner. But, then again, Captain Vanik had not been asking about "mating."

"Anyway," Archer went on as if Esilia hadn't spoken, "just about everyone on board is . . . significantly younger than me. It just wouldn't be appropriate." He stuffed a forkful of steak into his mouth and chewed furiously.

Esilia studied him for a moment, completely oblivious to the "shut up" vibes emanating from the other three people at the table. She picked up her glass and took a sip, then sighed and commented, "You've given several excuses, Captain, but no reasons."

Archer glanced at Trip, who was now full out staring at the Ikaaran, appalled. T'Pol was doing that Vulcan thing, where she refused to acknowledge an embarrassing situation in order to spare the subject further discomfort. He was on his own, then. He put his utensils down, and folded his long fingers on top of the table. Nothing for it but to do it, he thought to himself. "Well," he answered simply, "the bottom line is, the one I would have chosen . . . chose someone else." He held her gaze for as long as it took the lavender blush to reach her hairline. The only sound in the room was the hum of the ventilation system.

He let a few profoundly awkward beats go by before he folded his napkin and placed it gently on his half-full plate. He rose. "I . . . have some paperwork to finish up. Please, stay and enjoy the rest of your meal. I know Chef has come up with something really special for dessert." With most of his dignity intact, Archer left the room.


	4. Of Emptiness And Empathy

It was surprisingly easy to avoid someone on a starship. Trip avoided Archer simply by staying in Engineering and never going to the Bridge. That behavior drew no suspicion, since everybody knew how obsessed Trip was with his engines, and, anyway, his presence topside usually meant that the ship was in big, big trouble. The captain avoided Esilia by working on his calculations on the Bridge, rather than in the Command Center.

T'Pol avoided the captain by keeping her eyes firmly on her instruments, usually with her back to the captain's chair. Their shifts were uneventful, requiring only the briefest of contact at the beginning and end of the watch.

By the third day, however, the captain was feeling detached and isolated, missing the easy camaraderie of his senior officers. He sat in his chair on the Bridge, pretending to be immersed in yet another astral equation, but really studying T'Pol out of the corner of his eye. The Bridge was silent, as usual; the helm and communications stations were being manned by junior officers, whose attentions were fixed on their never-changing consoles. Travis and Hoshi had volunteered to work on systems repairs on the Ikaaran ship. The tactical station was been monitored remotely from the Armory.

For the sixth time in ten minutes (yes, he was studying her that carefully), T'Pol shifted her position in her chair and drew a deep breath. To Archer's eye, she looked profoundly uncomfortable. He toyed with the idea of relieving her of duty and ordering her to her quarters or to Sickbay to rest, but couldn't think of a single scenario that would place such an order outside of the category of "completely improper." As long as she was performing her duties, her physical comfort was none of his business. And besides, he didn't have the mental fortitude to risk a cold snub if he asked her, even in private, if she were feeling okay. No, his ego had not quite recovered from that awful dinner inquisition, and there was only so much humility he could conjure on a daily basis.

It was a character flaw that he would live to regret in short order.

T'Pol was never one to clock watch, but when her "shift"—to the extent that any of the senior officers were bound by strict duty segments—ended, she shot out of her seat and headed for the turbo lift. She could feel Archer's eyes boring through her back as she waited for the lift to arrive. His gaze, the split-second glimpse that she had gotten as she had turned around in her seat, had been concerned. She didn't expect him to comment, not after three days of aloof behavior, and he didn't. But his chair was still turned slightly in her direction even as she stepped into the lift and directed it toward Sickbay.

Several hours later, after ignoring yet another tray of dinner on his Ready Room table, Archer pressed the open door button. Trip walked in, looking grey and haggard. Something was wrong.

All thought of avoiding his friend was pushed aside. Archer stood up, and took a step toward him.  
"What's the matter, Trip?"

The engineer rubbed his eyes and looked at the floor, swallowing convulsively. "T'Pol had—we, uh, lost the baby."

Archer placed the padd he had been using gently down upon the desk. The universe suddenly seemed immensely fragile. "Is she okay?" he asked, hating the way that sounded, but not knowing what else to say.

"Doc said she'll be fine." Trip closed his eyes briefly.

_Why are you here?_ Archer wanted to ask. Instead, he inquired, "How's she taking it?"

Trip shook his head sadly. "The same way she takes everything else. Logically. Unemotionally. There wasn't anything she needed me to say or do, so I left."

"How are you doing?"

The engineer shrugged. "I don't know how I feel. I was just getting used to the idea that there would be a kid, and now, there isn't. It feels so . . . unreal." A mirthless smile appeared.  
"Phlox thinks that if we wait for her natural mating cycle to roll around, she'll be able to sustain a pregnancy okay. It seems her body interpreted the baby as a foreign object, like a virus, and attacked it."

Archer put a hand on Trip's shoulder soothingly, and led him to the couch. He handed him the untouched glass of iced tea that had come with his own meal, then took a seat opposite. "I guess the thing to say is, there'll be other children, but I always thought that sounded dumb." He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his spread knees. "I'm really sorry, Trip."

The two men sat in contemplative silence for a while. Then Trip rose and said, "I'll be in Engineering."

"Take a few days off, Trip," Archer said, but not in his command voice.

"Actually, Cap'n," Trip replied hollowly, "I really need to . . . there's gotta be something down there that I can fix." He moved toward the door.

"Trip," said the captain, "would you mind if I went to see her?"

There was no accusation in Trip's eyes as he responded, "I think she'd like that. Dr. Phlox already released her from Sickbay. She's in our quarters."

Heavy feet took the captain to T'Pol and Trip's quarters later that evening. The two resided in what had been Trip's cabin, since it was easier for T'Pol to move her few belongings to a new space than it would have been for Trip to pack even a fraction of his clutter. Trip's quarters were slightly larger as well, second only to the captain's, as he had been intended for the second-in-command spot before the Vulcans had insisted that T'Pol accompany Enterprise on its first mission. Perversely, and it was not something that he was proud of, Archer had never reassigned the official First Officer's quarters to her.

He paused before ringing the door chime. At T'Pol's signal, the door slid open and he found her, as he'd expected, kneeling, staring into her lit meditation candles. She didn't look any different, a little tired, maybe, but that may have been the shadows cast by the flames. He stepped in, hesitated, then gingerly knelt down opposite her. His subconscious reminded him that this would necessarily be a short conversation, since his knees couldn't take this position for very long.

She waited, her expression completely unreadable. Finally, Archer said the only thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

T'Pol opened her mouth, as if to chastise him for the illogic of the sentiment, then closed it again. After six years in close confinement with these humans, she could read them like giant screens with block lettering, yet she was no closer to understanding the complex play of emotions that drove them. Why her captain would be sitting there with a mixture of pain, regret, sadness, and pity flickering across his features, she could not fathom. Where was the logic, even minimal human logic, in mourning an undeveloped fetus that wasn't even his own offspring? She supposed she could tell him that she no longer felt the physical discomfort that had manifested itself when her body decided to miscarry, or that Vulcans had no vocabulary to acknowledge a being that had never actually come into existence. She didn't think that would change anything.

Like Trip, the captain was upset. Unlike Trip, he made no move to touch or embrace her, did not seek tender comfort from her. He simply watched her, silently. He chewed his upper lip and stretched his mouth so that those peculiar dents appeared on the sides of his face. But he didn't say anything else.

She searched her mind for an appropriate comment. "I . . . appreciate your coming to see me, Captain," she said, thinking that sounded about right.

It seemed to release him from his tense scrutiny. He reached inside his uniform, to the inner pocket designed to lose things in, and pulled out an audio disc. He held it out, well above the flame, and said, "I don't know if this is at all helpful, but I sometimes listen to music to . . . get past rough spots. This is a symphony that incorporates the sounds of water, you know, rivers and waterfalls and rain. I thought maybe you . . . I mean, I know you meditate, but, I thought . . . ." He trailed off as she had made no move to take the disc. "Well."

Just as he began to pull the disc back, she reached up and grasped it. "Thank you, Captain." He levered himself backward, trying to gain his feet gracefully. Her voice forestalled him. "There's something else." It was her thoughtful, measured, you're-not-going-to-want-to-hear-this voice, the one she reserved for pronouncements of how ineffective their weapons were being in the middle of battle, or how miniscule the chances were of the one gambit that they were relying on to save their lives actually succeeding. Archer lowered himself back onto his protesting knees.

"About dinner three nights ago," she began, and watched the captain's green eyes take on that now familiar distance, "I have noticed that our guest's conversation topic has caused you some distress. I do not believe she was aware of the implications of her questions."

He managed to keep most of the chill out of his voice, in deference to her ordeal. "I really don't want to talk about this with you. Not now. Not ever." It was bad enough that he had admitted to carrying a torch for her; no way was he going to either justify it or apologize.

She persisted, but in a completely different vein. "It is illogical, Captain, for you to believe that there are no companionship options for you. And, given the needs of a normal human male, it is unrealistic and unhealthy to expect to live the rest of your life, which could be another forty to fifty years, given the present life span of your species, celibate."

"Priests have been required, for over two thousand years, to live celibate lives," Archer pointed out, while one part of his mind wondered, aghast, at the fact that he was even having this conversation with his Vulcan First Officer. Was everyone on board obsessed with his sex life, or lack thereof?

"You are not a priest," T'Pol answered, predictably.

Archer remained stubborn. "Your point?"

T'Pol lowered her gaze to the flame before her, hesitant now to trespass on such intimate ground. On one hand, it was not the Vulcan way, to insert oneself into another person's life decisions uninvited. On the other, though, the sheer illogic of the captain's position, his seeming acceptance of a solitary life, even as Enterprise became a generational ship, could have repercussions in his performance and decision making. "Your reasons for not fraternizing hold some validity. However, there are other options open to you, if you choose. Humans are not innately xenophobic, and, while you dislike Vulcans for your own reasons, you have shown remarkable open-mindedness toward every other species we've encountered."

Archer stared at her in silence. She went on, seeing no need to, as humans put it, "beat around the bush." "The Ikaaran woman is attracted to you. Since the feeling appears mutual, perhaps that is an option you might consider." The captain's mouth dropped open, as if suddenly unhinged. She had rarely seen him actually rendered speechless; it was an interesting phenomenon. She continued. "It would be unfortunate if Trip's and my difficulties in conceiving and carrying a child to term were to discourage you from considering a partnership and family with a non-human."

The captain rose painfully and slowly from his position on the floor. His head was spinning; was his Science Officer really playing matchmaker and sex therapist? He needed a drink. This conversation was not supposed to be about how to get him laid; it was supposed to be about how sorry he was for her and Trip's loss—damn, he had to get out of here. He hadn't thought he had the capacity to be more embarrassed than he'd been three nights ago; he'd been dead wrong.

"T'Pol," he croaked, backing toward the door, "you're entitled to bereavement leave; I suggest you take it. I don't want to see you on the Bridge for at least three days." She looked up at him, now looming over her, without argument. "As for your suggestion," he thumbed the door control, "I'll take it under advisement." He stepped out into the corridor, unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt for air, and headed toward his own quarters.

The Science Officer stared at the now closed door. She placed her hand over her flat belly and surrendered the twinge of regret and disappointment to the meditation flame. It took some pushing; it didn't want to go. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she turned the audio disc over in her hand, thinking. With a glance toward the door, out of which her grieving husband and her freaked out captain had both fled, she rose and inserted the disc into the player. The sound of rushing water (a noise rarely, if ever, heard on Vulcan), intertwined with strings and percussion, crept into her mind as she laid her empty body onto the bed. The symphony settled into her bones and nudged her gently into peace.


	5. Of Definitions And Decisions

Archer was sitting on his bed, trying not to think, when the door chime rang. Porthos didn't stir; a glance at the clock told Archer that it was past two o'clock in the morning. It couldn't be an emergency. The officer of the watch would simply have commed him. Maybe Trip needed some company. He opened the door.

Esilia stood there, unsmiling, stiff. Without preamble, she said, "I would like to speak with you, Captain, please. May I come in?"

The captain glanced back over his shoulder to his dim quarters. Three years ago, he would have courteously, if reluctantly, let a visitor into his cabin, apologizing for his attire, a tee-shirt and pajama bottoms. But Raijin had changed all that. It had taken some doing, but he had finally realized how vulnerable he was, how dangerous it was to have a stranger in his quarters. Phlox and Reed both had security override codes to his door, but, in all reality, if they ever had cause to use them, it would likely be too late to save him.

He held up a hand. "Wait here," he said, backing into the room to grab an overshirt and shove his feet into his track shoes. Stepping into the corridor, he gestured down the hall. "Let's walk."

They strolled in silence through the half-lit corridors for awhile, Esilia matching her steps to the captain's long strides. Neither seemed prepared to broach the uncomfortable subject hanging between them. Eventually, they found themselves in the deserted Crew's Mess, where Archer poured a cup of coffee for himself, and a glass of pineapple juice, to which Esilia had become absolutely addicted, for his guest. Sipping, he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What's on your mind?"

Esilia's discomfort didn't stop her from looking him straight in the eye. Her steady gaze, with her black eyes, had an unusual effect; Archer felt himself growing very warm. "I'm told I owe you an apology, Captain," she said.

Archer raised an eyebrow in his best Vulcan manner. "Oh?"

"Yes. I spoke with Ensign Sato and Crewman Kelly this morning while we were working on repairs to my ship. I related to them our conversation, the one we had over dinner several nights ago. I was, well, disturbed to discover that I may have embarrassed you with my questions, or even hurt your feelings. For that, I apologize. It was not intentional."

Archer almost couldn't get past the fact that now two of his junior staff were involved in the ongoing discussion about his sex life. Not since he had inadvertently encountered three female crewmembers in the middle of a mid-corridor chat, describing the finer details of his firm tush—complete with hand motions—had he been so mortified. He scrubbed his face with both palms. "You may have noticed that humans are a bit less open regarding certain topics. And it's certainly not considered polite dinner conversation." He sounded like a prude, even to himself.

"I hope this hasn't damaged your professional relationship with Sub-Commander T'Pol or Commander Tucker."

"T'Pol and I resolved this issue a long time ago," Archer answered. "And Trip, well, we've known each other a long time. He gets it."

"Hoshi also told me that you are not of so advanced an age that you cannot still procreate."  
Archer spat a mouthful of coffee back into his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  
"She said you probably still possess a healthy sexual drive. I had been under the impression from examining your ship's database regarding human interaction that a person of your advanced age would no longer feel sexual urges."

_I think I need that drink now,_ Archer thought.

Esilia toyed with her glass. "All of the literature seems to indicate that sexual activity occurs between persons in their third or fourth decades."

"What the hell have you been reading?" Archer demanded, thinking Phlox's medical database must really need an overhaul.

"Hoshi gave me some examples. I must say, it's interesting information." She pulled a padd out of her trouser pocket and handed it over.

Archer scrolled through the titles with disbelief. " _Passion's Fortune_? _Starlight Obsession_? You're getting your information from bodice-ripper romance novels?" He began to laugh, despite himself. "These aren't exactly encyclopedic."

Esilia chuckled along with him. "I have to say, I had started to wonder about your species. These accounts leave me with many unanswered questions."

If he had thought about it for even one second, he would have avoided the quagmire. But his mouth moved faster than his brain, and before he could call the word back, he had asked, "Like?"

The alien frowned. "Like, the text keeps using the word, 'kiss,' but never defines what it is."

The drink dispenser did not produce alcohol, or else Archer would have sprinted to the machine. He looked desperately around for a distraction, but the room was still empty. He rubbed his cheek. "Well, a kiss is where a person touches his or her lips to another person to show affection. Mothers can kiss children; husbands and wives can kiss. It's very common among most human cultures."

"It is pleasurable?"

Archer sighed. "Yes." And then, as Esilia opened her mouth to continue her line of questioning, some deity somewhere took pity on the poor captain. "Bridge to Captain Archer." He was out of his seat and across the room in a heartbeat. "Archer here."

"Sir," said the watch officer, "we've located the Tanaar."

* * *

There it was, on long range sensors, a massive transport ship. Archer had brought Esilia to the Bridge to identify her ship, and now she stood staring, transfixed, at the viewscreen.  
Unfortunately, the Tanaar seemed to be in trouble. Five smaller ships surrounded it, and, if the tactical sensors were correct, they were gearing up to fire.

"Those are Wyric ships," Esilia offered tensely. "They are not supposed to be in this sector. They're violating the treaty."

"Set an intercept course," Archer ordered, sliding into the command chair. "When we're in range, open a hailing frequency." He wished Reed and Sato were on the Bridge, but both were off-duty, as was he, technically. By the time Enterprise had covered the several thousand kilometer distance, the smaller ships had begun peppering the Tanaar with very effective phase cannon fire. The larger ship fired back defensively, largely missing the more agile attackers. Ensign Carpenter, covering the tactical station, monitored damage.

As soon as Enterprise was in range, one of the small ships opened fire on her. Enterprise barely rocked, even without the hull plating polarized, but it got Archer's attention. "Tactical Alert," he snapped, and the Bridge dimmed slightly. "Open a channel."

After a moment, the communications officer reported, "Hailing frequencies open, sir."

He took a deep breath. "Tanaar, this is Captain Jonathan Archer of the Starship Enterprise. Do you require assistance?"

A surprised voice answered immediately. "Enterprise, our vessel is under attack. We—"

Two of the smaller ships fired, hitting the Tanaar on the starboard side. The other three wheeled around to harass the newcomer, their shots bouncing almost harmlessly off of the polarized hull.  
"Their shields are down to twenty percent," Carpenter announced. "No damage to us, yet, though."

From behind him, near the turbo lift doors, Esilia gasped. In full battle mode now, Archer ignored her. "Evasive," he tossed to the helm. "Carpenter, prepare to fire." He walked over to the Communications station and nodded to the crewman there. He mentally crossed his fingers and hoped he wasn't going to pay for his meddling. He also hoped he was picking the right side. "Tanaar, we stand ready to help. Please indicate which ship you would like us to destroy first."

Into the stunned silence came a different voice. "Enterprise, we have no quarrel with you. We do not wish to engage in hostilities with your ship."

"Then I suggest you quit shooting at us and move off. Power down your weapons. Now."

Abruptly, all firing stopped. Carpenter looked up and nodded; all five ships moved into formation and immediately went to warp. Archer let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Tanaar's hailing us," the communications officer said.

"Onscreen."

The female face that appeared bore the same delicate ridge down the nose as Esilia's, but appeared decades older. Any doubt that they had found Esilia's people vanished. "Captain Archer, I'm Captain Leev-Sran of the Ikaaran vessel, Tanaar. I am grateful for your assistance. I'm at a loss, however, as to why you would come to our aid." The eyebrowless forehead wrinkled.

Archer smiled. "Maybe this will clear things up." He turned to look at Esilia, and gestured for her to come around the command chair, closer to the screen. Captain Leev-Sran's eyes widened in shock. "Esilia-lavaoss-saanaa," she said, "how—?"

"If you would care to come aboard, Captain," Archer said, "I'd be happy to explain it all to you."

* * *

Archer felt terrible for calling T'Pol back to duty before her three days—leave that he had insisted she take—had even begun, but he needed his senior staff with him as he greeted the Ikaraan captain. The First Officer was unfazed; the mere fact that it took less than twenty-four hours for the captain to embroil himself in a conflict between two unknown alien species only solidified her belief that he could not be left to his own devices for long. So she had no complaints about being summoned from her quarters at seven o'clock in the morning to welcome Captain Leev-Sran aboard.

They assembled at Docking Port Two (Docking Port One being already occupied with Esilia's scout ship), Archer, T'Pol, Tucker, Reed, and Sato, and waited for the green light. The airlock scan signalled clear, and the door slid open.

Captain Leev-Sran was taller than Archer by a few inches, and at the same time, more stocky. She gazed at Archer for a moment before cocking her head to the side. "My greetings, Captain Archer. It appears that I have many, many reasons to thank you."

Archer offered his hand, which, after a pause, Leev-Sran took and pumped once. Evidently, she had glanced over the short informational packet Hoshi had transmitted, standard operating procedure now for first contact. Even as she smiled at Archer, her gray eyes slid to the side, seeking Esilia. Archer quickly introduced his crew, then stepped a pace to the right. "If you would come this way, we'll escort you to your crew member."

He nodded to the MACO standing guard at the door of the conference room, and allowed the Ikaaran captain to enter the room where Esilia waited nervously.  
Leev-Sran studied Esilia closely, from the top of her head down, then walked a tight circle around her. She spoke in Ikaaran, and the UT translated. "You are unharmed, niece?"

"I have been well taken care of, Captain," Esilia answered.

Leev-Sran's expression softened, and she lifted a hand to lightly stroke Esilia's hair. "We thought you were lost to us," she said simply. "We mourned you."

"I owe my life to this crew."

Archer felt uncomfortable intruding on what he now realized was a family reunion. He nodded briefly to the two women, then let the door slide shut.

"These humans, this captain, tell me about them." Leev-Sran could already see the signs, but she wanted to hear the words from Esilia herself.

"Actually, they are from the future. They were on a mission that failed, and they can't go back to their planet." She shrugged, a foreign gesture that was not lost on the Ikaaran captain. "They've adapted. I feel. . . safe here."

Leev-Sran hardened her voice. "You must come home. The Wyric have become more aggressive, as you've just seen. Ikaar needs all the ships and pilots it can get. You'll likely be assigned to scout the trade routes." She knew from Esilia's expression what was coming next, and waited.

"I don't want to go home."

The captain frowned. "If I order you, you will come home." Esilia turned away, gazing out of the window. "Has Archer asked you to stay?"

"No," Esilia admitted. "But I want to. I want him." She thought about what that would mean, remaining on a human vessel with humans. Ikaarans had been intermarrying with other species for generations; they were open and accepting. But humans, as far as she could see, were not. Their only prolonged exposure to other species, it seemed, was to the Vulcans, who, in her opinion, had succeeded in stifling much of the natural curiosity evident in human literature. She might want Archer, but there was no guarantee that Archer would want her.

The older woman sat down, pouring herself a glass of pineapple juice. "Tell me everything. Then I will decide what to do."

From the expression on her captain's face, Esilia already knew what the answer would be. But she was a woman under authority, and so she obeyed.


	6. Of Chances And Choices

Debriefing with the Tanaar captain had lasted most of the day, and Archer was exhausted. Captain Leev-Sran displayed all the curiosity he'd come to associate with Ikaarans, but her questioning also held all the authority of command. He tried not to be annoyed by the air of demand, probably wholly unintentional, that the Tanaar's captain gave off. Several times Esilia interceded, and he got the distinct impression that she was less about appeasing her captain, and more interested in soothing his ruffled feathers. Still, he felt patronized, especially when it became apparent that Ikaaran technology was significantly more advanced than Earth's.

Had T'Pol been in better health, he would have left the debriefing in her hands. Her unending patience and lack of ego to bruise was much better suited to handle what felt to Archer like an interrogation. He pettily reminded himself that Enterprise had come to Tanaar's rescue, not the other way around. And he felt a surge of pride as Esilia demonstrated all of the upgrades Trip had made to her scout ship, advances that the Ikaarans could have performed themselves had it ever occurred to them to do so. Still, after a lengthy discussion with Leev-Sran, a stem-to-stern tour of Enterprise, and a thorough inspection of Esilia's scout, he was worn out. He had all but ordered T'Pol to her quarters after an early dinner, and then had retreated to his Ready Room, catching up on all the paperwork which had piled up during the day. That had taken him well into the evening shift. And he still had to speak to Esilia.

At the end of the debriefing session, she had approached him, strangely diffident in the presence of her own captain. "I would like to speak to you later, if you have time. My captain intends to leave just as soon as her engineers have completed the inspection of my ship."

Thinking of all of the work he still had to do, he had promised to come by her quarters before retiring for the night. So now he stood outside the guest cabin, wondering if this were really such a good idea. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed the door chime and waited.

Esilia had already packed the few pieces of clothing and personal items retrieved from her ship over the past several days. She moved the Starfleet-issue duffel bag off of the low couch and sat down. After a pause, Archer sat next to her. If she were human, he would have said she looked depressed.

She handed him a padd. "I asked our ship's medic to download information about my people, medical data and some of our cultural literature. Ensign Sato should be able to translate it. There's no reason to think we won't encounter each other again."

"Thanks. I'm sure Hoshi will appreciate the project." He sensed she had other things on her mind, so he waited. For a usually talkative person, she seemed to be having a hard time choosing her words.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to continue our conversation in the Mess Hall. There are many questions I still have."

"Do you ever run out of questions?" Where did that teasing tone come from? Why was he suddenly sitting so close to her? He clenched his fingers tightly around the padd, trying to get control of the suggestions running through his mind and the sensations running through his body. Even the way she tipped her head up to look at him, a gesture completely necessary and rational, given the difference in their heights, provoked the most irrational urge to bend and kiss her. She had a disconcerting tendency to hold eye contact, with an expression of absorbed interest that was as frankly sexual as it was completely unintended. Locked in her gaze, he felt warm all over, as if his whole body were blushing.

"Oh, no, I want to know everything about you." She smiled, with a little mischief. "Like, what are those things on your face for?" Archer furrowed his brow, about to ask what she was talking about, when she added, "Yes, those! And they move!" She reached out a finger and touched his left eyebrow, tracing it from inner to outer end. Archer wasn't sure, but he thought he felt a tingle. "It's like fur," she commented softly.

He cleared his throat. "Those are eyebrows, and I don't know what exactly they do. I guess they're just for decoration." Her finger stroked the right eyebrow and Archer stifled a groan. Okay, there was definitely some tingling going on there. He thought he should move away, put some space between himself and this alien woman, who may or may not be trying to seduce him. He didn't move a muscle.

"They're soft. Your face is so interesting, even though you don't have a guyan," she let her forefinger trail down the bridge of his nose, "rough and smooth all at the same time—"

Desperate to shut her up, Archer leaned in and kissed her, a first date kiss, all firm possibility. Drawing back, he looked into her surprised black eyes. "What was that?" she whispered.

" _That_ was a kiss," he answered huskily, and cut off her follow up question with a second date kiss, a little more open, a little less firm. "Breathe through your nose," he murmured against her mouth, and moved in for a third date kiss. She got the hang of it pretty quickly. Her fingers lifted to his face and yes, there was a definite electrical sensation as they traced his cheekbones and jaw. He didn't protest at all, he couldn't, as those fingers moved down his throat to the vee of skin above the second button of his black jersey. She eased the zipper of his uniform down a bit, but that only revealed more shirt. She seemed a little frustrated that his jumpsuit didn't allow her to have further access to him. He slid his hands beneath the hem of her blouse, and was rewarded with a not-unpleasant prickling sensation in his fingertips. As Esilia drew a deep gasp, Archer decided that skin-to-skin contact was the point of this exercise.  
Capturing her mouth again, he let his hands roam over her ribcage, and around to her spine, eliciting a delighted response. He began to lower her gently to her back, not caring that the narrow couch was not built for two people.

He could feel the heat of her hands through his clothing; impressive, that, since he was wearing his customary three layers. The tingling feeling spread throughout his body with an intensity he'd never felt before . . .

Except once.

He froze, mid-motion, a cold feeling washing over him. _Raijin_. This electricity, this heat, it all reminded him of the Xindi-recruited spy, another damsel in distress, who had run her talented hands over his body, all the while scanning his physiology for information to make a bio-weapon.  
How could he be so careless, twice? Would he never learn? Here he was, alone in a room with an alien woman he knew precious little about, with his guard—and his zipper—down. Even if Ikaarans were not a species hostile to humans—a novel concept in and of itself—he couldn't assume that this kind of intimate contact wasn't dangerous or even lethal. He didn't know; maybe Ikaaran women killed their mates during or after sex. Or, just as likely, he could end up "Tripped"—accidentally pregnant with an alien baby. He fought down a surge of panic.

Removing his hands from her waist, his lips from hers, he pulled abruptly away. Esilia looked up in confusion, still flushed a pale lavender, as he stood and backed up two paces. He took several deep breaths, trying to ignore the betrayed expression on the Ikaaran's face. "I'm sorry. I can't."

She didn't say anything at all, and for once, he wished she would batter him senseless with her normal torrent of words. Lamely, he said into the silence, "It's not you," and winced, aware of how trite that sounded. "I just . . . I can't. I'm sorry." Without another word from either of them, Archer let himself out of the room.

* * *

Enterprise's second and third in command spent a great deal of time the following morning exchanging concerned glances behind the captain's back as they gathered once again at the docking port. Esilia's ship had been moved to the launch bay of the Tanaar, and now she was taking her leave of the Earth vessel. Whatever easy rapport she and the captain had achieved during the debriefing session the previous day was gone. Archer seemed stiff and awkward; the usually garrulous Ikaaran was quiet. Not even Trip could evoke much response as he reminded her of the modifications and repairs his staff had made to her ship.

"Remember, you gotta go easy on the throttle, since your top speed is now two point eight instead of two point two," the engineer cautioned, with the same intensity he employed to lecture people about Enterprise's own warp engine. "You might find yourself overshooting your target until you get used to it. And those manifolds should last you for a couple dozen light years at least."

"I appreciate all you've done, Commander," Esilia replied, shaking his hand firmly, "everybody's been very accommodating. Perhaps in the near future, I—we will have a chance to repay you for your hospitality." She looked at Archer briefly, then away.

"That's not necessary," the captain said quietly. He could feel T'Pol's eyes on him, and knew her well enough to tell that she was slightly irritated with him, or maybe just disappointed.

Esilia reached into her duffel bag and pulled out a padd. "I meant to return this to you last night, Captain." She handed it to him under Trip's interested gaze. "The medical and cultural information."

Archer took the padd, then decided to bite the bullet. He grasped Esilia lightly by the elbow and took a few steps away from Trip and T'Pol, turning his back to them. The airlock light was still red, so he had a few seconds. Pitching his voice low, he said, "It's my turn to apologize to you, Esilia. For last night. I, uh, well, I'm sorry."

True to form, she interrupted him. "I should apologize to you. It was my fault—"

He held up a hand, palm out, and was surprised when she actually stopped talking. "That's not what I mean. I shouldn't have left without any explanation."

"I understand."

Archer closed his eyes for a second. "No, you really don't. It's just that. . . there have been other. . .beings we've come across that—I let my guard down once, and she got information that she shouldn't have." That made little sense, even to him, but he went on as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the airlock seal light turn green. "When you touched me, it felt. . . similar, and I got spooked."

"Spooked?" Esilia echoed, distracted by a new idiom.

"Look it up. The point is, it wasn't unwelcome, it just happened so fast. I wasn't ready for it." He searched her expression for understanding and forgiveness.

She looked down at the padd he held. "Well, as I said last night, there's no reason to think we won't encounter each other again." The way her voice trailed off clearly added, _Unless you want me to stay_ . . .

The airlock door slid open. Archer offered his hand, sandwiching her long fingers between his warm palms. She searched his face one last time before smiling sweetly and saying, "Goodbye, Captain Archer."

"Safe journey," he responded, and almost didn't watch as she passed through the airlock and into the Ikaaran shuttle. She waved to Commander Tucker and Sub-Commander T'Pol, another human mannerism she'd picked up, and was gone.

Archer knew that T'Pol could not help but overhear that last conversation. He could also read her opinion in the Vulcan's completely impassive face.

Trip finished sealing off the airlock and automatically laid a hand on the small of T'Pol's back, a gesture he used often lately, since the loss of the baby. It was discreet enough; T'Pol didn't protest or move away. She couldn't help him in his grief, but she would refrain from doing anything to make it worse. She wished there were a similar action that would help the captain.

Archer squared his shoulders and she could have mouthed the words right along with him as he muttered, "I'll be in my Ready Room." No doubt he would hide there all day, and, should she seek him out, she would find him there, much later, staring out at the stars. He turned and walked down the corridor slowly, his entire aspect that of a man who was as certain as any human could be that he had made the wrong decision.


	7. Of Family And Familiarity

Archer rolled his shoulders in his uniform. He was a couple of hours later than he'd intended to be; a pesky malfunction had come up in Engineering, and he had decided not to bother Trip about it, especially today. Trip was, without question, a wunderkind with the engines, but the captain considered himself to be fairly handy when it came to basic warp theory. He paused before the door to Trip and T'Pol's quarters and rang the bell.

The door opened immediately. Archer noticed right away that Trip was dead to the world, sprawled, fully dressed, across the bed. T'Pol had obviously been relaxing and reading, clad unself-consciously in her blue pajamas. The cabin was quiet.

"Hey," Archer said in a hushed voice. "How's everybody doing?"

"There is no need to whisper, Captain," T'Pol said quietly. "Trip will not wake unless the warp reactor vibrates incorrectly."

Archer chuckled. "And how are you?"

"I am recovering well." She walked to the desk and placed the book down. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Oh, I don't want to wake him up; I just came by to say congratulations."

"He is not asleep." She stepped over to the tiny bed situated underneath the window and motioned the captain over. Archer glanced down, startled to find the hours-old infant staring calmly up at him.

_No crying he makes_ , came the random thought. Receiving a nod to his, "May I?", Archer reached down and gently scooped up the blanket-wrapped bundle. "Hello, Lorian," he said in a soft, rumbling voice. "I'm your Uncle Jon."

Archer had encountered few infants in his lifetime, most of them aboard Enterprise just in the last eighteen months. Human babies, he had discovered, were usually puckered and red-faced, peering at the world with perplexed expressions, trying to figure out how everything could change so completely so fast. Not Lorian, this Vulcan/human wonder of the universe. He gazed up at Archer with dark eyes, steadily, as if he already had the man's number and was waiting for an explanation.

Lorian had Trip's ski-jump nose, and, as expected, T'Pol's delicately pointed ears. He seemed to weigh nothing at all. "He's beautiful," Archer commented, and was surprised when T'Pol answered,  
"Yes, he is."

Archer let out the mental breath he'd been holding for the better part of a year. Not long after her miscarriage, T'Pol had come down with some Vulcan condition—not contagious, Phlox had assured him—and she and Trip had been quarantined in their quarters for about a week, completely incommunicado. Apparently, it hadn't been life-threatening, although Trip had looked a little worse for wear for several days afterward. And a few weeks later, T'Pol had announced quietly that they were expecting again. Archer would never have admitted it, not even under Xindi torture, but he had been on tenterhooks these past several months, hoping for a more joyful resolution this time. T'Pol had had an uneventful, if closely monitored, pregnancy, and the result rested here in his cupped hands.

"He's healthy?" Archer asked, sitting down gingerly on the one chair in the room.

"Phlox says that he is within normal parameters for either a Vulcan or human newborn," T'Pol replied. "Trip made a point of examining the baby's fingers and toes. Apparently, they are all present and accounted for."

Archer studied Lorian for a long moment, drawn in by those midnight blue eyes that seemed to focus and follow his face. He felt a pang of regret, quickly subdued, and covered it by saying, "I'm very happy for you and Trip." He lifted the baby until he was eye to eye. "You've got a terrific set of parents, Lorian. Make sure you drive them crazy." He stood and handed the baby back to his mother. "I'll go so you can get some rest. Let me know if you need anything, T'Pol."

"Don't forget we are scheduled to rendezvous with the Almarian freighter in two days." She sounded her normal schoolmarmish self.

"You're on leave. Malcolm, Hoshi, and I will handle it." He headed for the door.

"I believe I can be of assistance to you in negotiating the terms."

Archer turned, half in, half out of the doorway. "I said you're on leave, that's an order. _Mom_." He grinned at her and let the door slide shut on her skeptical expression.

* * *

"Remind me not to trade with Almarians anymore," Archer muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he, Reed, and Sato stared down the barrels of five fierce-looking phase rifles. Reed let his eyes roam the small, dank room they occupied for any point of escape. There was none; even if they could rush the scaly aliens and fight their way out, there was no way they could make it back to their shuttle pod without being blasted to atoms. Before them, on the scarred, chipped table, four cases sat open, filled with trellium-D, the most valuable resource Enterprise could trade. Fortunately for them, just about every merchant they had come across had a need for the mineral as protection from the Expanse anomalies. It was easy enough to mine, with Enterprise's powerful phase cannons.

The head trader, bearing a name that none of the three humans, not even Hoshi, could wrap their mouths around (so they just called him "X"), abruptly left the room, ostensibly to test the quality of the trellium. Hoshi paraphrased his parting words into a semi-threatening, "This had better be pure," rather than the more menacing literal translation which referenced Archer's distant ancestors and the concept of disembowelment. She didn't see the need to escalate Reed's tension any further.

"Are you sure the Ikaarans said these people were trustworthy?" Reed asked the captain, measuring the distance from the table to the only door with his eyes. "I don't recall anything about rifles being pointed at our heads."

Archer rolled his eyes and spoke without moving his mouth. "Captain Leev-Sran said they were a little suspicious." Most of the traders recommended by the Ikaarans had been businesslike and moderately friendly. Following the trade map the Ikaarans had left with them, the humans had encountered dozens of different species over the past year. As their original rations ran low, the heavily trafficked trade routes became their lifeline.

"Perhaps 'suspicious' and 'homicidal' are the same word in Ikaaran," Reed commented.

"Maybe we could sweeten the deal with some hooch," Hoshi suggested, referring to the ridiculously potent alcohol concocted by the Engineering and Exobiology teams in the makeshift still Archer had pretended not to know about for the first three years of the mission. The captain had tried it once out of curiosity, and had experienced an almost instant intoxication, then spent two days in Sickbay. The beverage's kick dwarfed that of Andorian ale, and it usually fetched as high a price as the trellium, for beings who went for that sort of thing.

"We'll keep that as our ace in the hole," Archer replied softly.

"Really. I wouldn't wish to deal with these blokes when they're hung over," Reed added. The door opened, and he tensed, his hand moving to the empty spot where his phase pistol would have hung had it not been confiscated at the beginning of the negotiations. X re-entered the room, carrying a chunk of trellium and a scanner.

The rock hit the table with a dull thud. Archer kept his eyes firmly on the trader, rehearsing in his mind the three ways he could use to get Hoshi out of the line of fire if things got ugly. But, speaking of ugly, X's face split into a semblance of a grin. "I've rarely seen trellium of this purity," he growled. "I agree to your price."

Archer allowed himself a slight smile. They weren't out of the woods yet. He wouldn't relax until they had all of the cargo onboard and were heading out of the orbit of this trading station.

"How much for the woman?" X continued, raking Hoshi up and down with his red eyes.

Reed stiffened; Hoshi, to her credit, didn't react. Archer appraised his Communications Officer with a squinted eye. "Oh, I wouldn't part with her for anything less than a complete reactor core. New. But I don't need one right now," he added, "so, nope, not interested."

X glared at him for a full minute; Archer glared back, hoping the alien didn't notice the beads of sweat gathering at his hairline. Finally, the Almarian relented. "You're wasting my valuable time, then." He sent the scanner spinning across the table with a flick of his finger. "Here are the coordinates for your cargo. Get out." As one, the five guards lowered their rifles and left the room.

"Our weapons," Archer reminded X mildly. The Almarian pointed a controller at a small door on the wall, which opened to reveal the three phase pistols. Without a word, he spun and left.

The security officer let out a breath and retrieved the pistols. Hoshi turned to the captain with a mock-severe look. "Only a reactor core, sir? What if he'd insisted on that deal?"

"Then I would have ripped his head off," the captain said, opening his communicator to convey the cargo coordinates to the transporter technician. Once delivery of the inventory had been confirmed, he headed toward the door, then stopped, looking a little nervous. "Let's not tell T'Pol about being held at gunpoint, okay?"

They struggled across the densely packed trading floor, jostling their way through the crowd, when Archer stopped abruptly, the hair at the back of his neck rising. He lifted his eyes and glanced around, seeking the source. He almost missed her in the tangle of beings, but there, by the entrance, stood Esilia, black eyes enormous in her pale face, watching him.

He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help himself. Her hair was more white than silver now, bound in a long braid down her back. She was dressed in a rich, red silk-like outfit, a one-piece suit similar to the type that T'Pol favored, except that it was form fitting up top but loose and flowing in the legs. He found it very sexy. He noticed with some alarm that she was armed.

She met them outside in the vast field where shuttle pods and other small ships were haphazardly deposited by customers. Hoshi got a delighted hug, Reed a businesslike handshake, but she didn't touch Archer. He found himself a little disappointed by that.

"Hello, Esilia," he greeted her.

"Captain," she said, her voice friendly but not intimate, "it is pleasant to see you again."

"Quite a surprise to meet up with you here," he ventured.

She gave a small smile. "Actually, I have been hoping to come across your warp signature for some time now. I have something for you that you might find interesting."

Archer's mind darted back to the Ikaaran database, and skimmed frantically through all he had read. Recalling the parts he had concentrated his research on, he pinned an answering smile on his face even as the plea echoed inside his brain. _Please, oh please, oh please, don't tell me there's a Jonathan Junior_ . . .

* * *

"Bridge to T'Pol."

In her quarters, T'Pol stopped her pacing, glancing down to check if Lorian had finally fallen asleep in the fabric sling draped across her left shoulder. He had. "Yes."

"Pod One is approaching. All three human bio-signs are aboard."

"Thank you."

"And there's another ship, as well." A pause. "It's the Ikaaran scout ship. They're both headed for the launch bay."

_Interesting_. "I'm on my way."

Any surprise she felt at seeing Esilia emerge from the little ship was hidden behind her placid Vulcan features. The Ikaaran had no such restraint. Upon seeing the baby's head peeking out from the sling, she immediately approached with familiarity and delight. Archer followed slowly behind her, leaving Reed to power down the shuttle pod and perform the post-flight inspection. The captain kept a noticeable distance between himself and the Ikaaran, T'Pol noticed, and Esilia seemed determined not to look his way unless absolutely necessary.

"I've invited Esilia to visit Enterprise for a while," Archer said, daring T'Pol to make a comment. She didn't. "She has some technology she'd like to share with Trip. A little thank-you from the Ikaarans for our help with the Tanaar last year."

"I will inform Commander Tucker," T'Pol replied impassively. "Perhaps Ensign Sato can escort our guest to her quarters."

"Oh, absolutely," Hoshi agreed enthusiastically, linking arms with Esilia like the two were long-lost girlfriends. "We have a ton of stuff to catch up on." The three women left without a backward glance. Archer got the uncomfortable, if paranoid, feeling that he would be the subject of much of that conversation.

* * *

"So, how long's she staying?" Trip asked casually, reaching for a micro-spanner. His voice was muffled, since he was lying on his back, knees bent, with his face inserted into the tiny space underneath the Situation Console at the rear of the Bridge. It was a passive-aggressive move, typical of Trip's non-confrontational Southern upbringing. Archer could avoid answering the question simply by acting as if he hadn't heard it.

"I don't know," the captain answered, "I haven't asked her. Indefinitely, I guess."

"You think that's wise? Leaving it open-ended like that?" Trip rested his ankle on his opposite knee and jiggled his foot, perfectly comfortable, as if his head were not centimeters away from a zillion-watt power source.

"I don't know what I think,"Archer admitted. "This yellow light's blinking. Isn't that bad?"

"Ignore it." A hand extended from underneath the console. "Pass me the thing?" Archer eyed the tools spread out on the floor and picked up a coil aligner. "Thanks," Trip said, and continued, "Hess and I took a look at those schematics Esilia brought back. Those upgrades could boost our fuel efficency by twenty, twenty-five percent. Some of those components though, not only have I never seen them before, but I wouldn't know how to start building them."

An alarm began to beep, and the readout on top of the console blinked. Archer squelched the urge to take a giant step back. "Uh, Trip. . . "

"Yeah, don't worry about it, I've almost got it." The beeping stopped, and Trip scooted out from underneath the console on his butt. Standing, shaking out his legs, he pushed a few buttons and smiled. "Good as new."

"You think you need Esilia here to help you integrate them?" Archer busied himself by resetting the functions on the console.

Trip wasn't fooled for one second. He had Archer's complete attention, although the captain's body language suggested otherwise. Right now, he didn't know if he was dealing with his best friend or his commanding officer. He decided to stick with a line drive down the middle. "Look, Cap'n, it's up to you whether you ask her to stay or not. I'm just saying, as your Chief Engineer, that those upgrades look good on paper, but I have no idea how to put them into practice. She's got some engineering experience, enough to start us off on the right track, anyway. Besides, she's a helluva pilot, and she's been flying in this space for who knows how long. She might be a useful permanent addition to the crew."

Archer rested his hands on the console and leaned on them. "She's an alien."

"So's T'Pol."

"That's different."

"How? And don't give me anything about how Vulcans are so trustworthy, because we both know that's crap." Archer snapped his head up, surprised to hear Trip mention the Vulcans with such derision. "The Vulcans always had their own agenda, even when they were 'guiding' us. And I've lost track of how many times the Andorians double crossed us. But Shran also helped us out, and without T'Pol, we would have been dust a long time ago, even though you never would have brought her aboard if you hadn't been forced to. You trust both of them."

"That doesn't mean I can trust Esilia."

"Doesn't mean you can't." Almost off-handedly, Trip added, "Cap'n, I'm the last person to criticize you for being attracted to an alien woman."

Archer opened and shut his mouth twice before he growled, "That's not what this is about, at all."

That was so not a denial. Trip filed that away. "Then take a look at the schematics, and figure out what's best for the ship."


	8. Of Examinations And Explorations

Archer sat on the bio-bed in Sickbay, resisting the urge to swing his feet like a child. Every glance in the mirror nowadays reminded him that he was on the far side of fifty. He hated annual physicals; hated waiting to be lectured about the things he needed to be doing more of, like exercising, and less of, like drinking coffee; hated having such conversations while stripped down to his skivvies. As with every other doctor Archer had ever known, "Undress," was the first directive out of Phlox's mouth, and "You may get dressed now," would be the last thing the Denobulan tossed over his shoulder at the end of this ordeal. Since the ship's medical sensors were sensitive enough to take readings through clothing any other time, he didn't understand why people had to sit around in their underwear for annual examinations.

Phlox recorded the exam data in his computer, then updated the file to show a comparative graph of the captain's general health over the past seven years. "Hmmm," he said, pleased. "Well, Captain, I must say, there is one upside to our being thrown back in time."

"Really. What's that?" Archer asked grumpily.

"Without the stress of the Xindi mission, your overall health has improved dramatically over the past few years. Your diet is adequate; you exercise regularly; and your blood pressure is as low as I'd want to see it. You are in excellent condition."

"Great, can I put my clothes on now?"

"Just a few more diagnostics to finish up," Phlox said. "It will only take a few minutes." He went along recording data while the captain squirmed a little. The doctor could tell there was something on his patient's mind, and he could keep the "diagnostics" excuse going for as long as it took the captain to spit it out.

Archer finally screwed up his courage. "Doc, can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly." Phlox kept his eyes fixed on the monitor.

"Well, it occurred to me that I'm getting older, and, um." He pulled up, banked, and circled for another approach. "I'm considering entering into a relationship with . . . someone, and I just wanted to know if, you know, physically, I'm in good enough . . ." he shrugged, ". . .shape."

"Hmm," said Phlox, "that depends. If you were considering a relationship with, say, a Klingon, then probably not. One of them would eat you alive, but the same would hold true for most humans, regardless of age."

Archer glared at him, realizing the doctor was having a joke at his expense. "Not a Klingon. A—an Ikaaran." There, he said it. As there was only one of those on board, that was as blunt as he was willing to be.

Phlox pulled a chair up and sat. "Hmmm," he said again, this time seriously and thoughtfully.  
"From a purely physical standpoint, I would say you should have no worries in the areas of stamina and performance, even at your age." Archer went red. "I assume you've looked into the medical database?" The captain nodded. "Then you understand that humans and Ikaarans are, in theory, sexually compatible—mostly. If you are willing to keep an open mind, I think it could be a satisfying relationship for both of you."

There were a lot of qualifiers in that opinion, Archer noted, and he knew why. According to the database, which he had had ample time over the past year to study, Ikaarans were a tactile species. He knew first-hand, so to speak, the incredible physical sensation evoked by skin to skin contact. He had not imagined the almost electrical energy that had skittered over his body when Esilia had touched him. Even when he dreamed of her, which he did often, he awoke with a yearning to feel that sensation again.

But what had brought him up short was the discovery that Ikaarans did not regularly engage in sexual intercourse; in fact, intimacy of that nature was matter-of-factly associated with reproduction. Ikaarans only ever engaged in it for the purpose of conceiving children.

Even if he could broach the subject with her (assuming she had forgiven his rejection of her), and even if she were still remotely interested in him, that was a pretty big stumbling block to get over. He thought he could. Maybe. He didn't know. Damn.

"Captain," Phlox began, and this time there was no trace of teasing in his voice, "I gather you are asking me for advice—which, by the way, is very flattering, I must say. My time among humans has taught me that one of the strongest emotions your species can exhibit is regret. It is apparent that you believe this woman can make you happy. If that is the case, then allowing, shall we say, fear of the unknown to stand in the way of that potential happiness would be a great mistake. I would add that if there is any person aboard Enterprise who deserves a little happiness, it is you, Captain." He slapped his knees and rose. "And, by the way, yes, this conversation will remain confidential." He parted the curtain and left, throwing over his shoulder, "You may get dressed now."

Leaving Sickbay, Archer resolved to begin a careful courtship of Esilia, and to see where it might lead. It was more difficult than he imagined, since she spent every waking hour, it seemed, in Engineering, working with Trip to try to find a way to interface the Ikaaran technology with Enterprise's systems. After a full week, during which the ship's emergency backup systems kicked in four separate times, both Trip and Esilia were beginning to seem a little obsessed.

Finally, Archer resorted to that old chestnut: dinner and a movie. He invited Trip and T'Pol to join him for a meal, and casually mentioned to Esilia that his favorite movie, _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , would be that night's feature. He had pulled a few strings to get that done; rank still had its privileges. He figured there was just enough romance amidst the adventure scenes to get the ball rolling.

Having orchestrated a double date, Archer sat back and listened as Trip and Esilia enthusiastically dominated the dinner conversation with their description of the modifications necessary to incorporate the new Ikaaran technology. He was amused by the sight of his engineer, baby sling draped across his chest, trying to eat without dropping any food on his son's head. The baby stirred, and Trip rose to pace the little room, bouncing gently with each step in the way that seemed innate to human parents.

The crew had become accustomed to T'Pol, off-duty, striding through the corridors with Lorian slung across the front of her, a practice, which, she explained, assisted in mother-child bonding. But it had come as a pleasant surprise to both parents to discover that Lorian was more easily lulled to sleep when held by his father. T'Pol theorized that Lorian was soothed by the sound of his father's heartbeat, since the human heart was located in the chest—as opposed to in the lower back, as was the case for Vulcans. So whenever Trip surfaced from Engineering, he eagerly took on the job of wearing the baby sling.

With Trip's attention diverted elsewhere, Archer took up the conversation. "Trip tells me that there were hostilities between Ikaar and Wyric over the past year."

Esilia sipped her juice. "Yes. The war lasted about five months, by your reckoning. I was called into service, as was every other skilled pilot."

"Your ship is not equipped with much weaponry," T'Pol observed.

"That's true. I was sent to monitor border skirmishes. Little ships like mine can easily slip through the intel net without detection." Esilia's voice hardened. "I stopped being a scout and became a spy. I got shot at several times. I didn't much like that. The upgrades you made to my warp engine came in very handy, Commander," she added, glancing at Trip.

"Well, I'm glad you made it through okay." Archer could well understand the anguish of having a mission of exploration turned into a mission of war.

"As soon as peace was declared, I separated from service. Now I . . . what's your word? Freelance. Transporting cargo, people, sometimes information. It's fairly lucrative. Of course, all the while I was hoping to run across Enterprise again." She lowered her black eyes to inspect the odd-smelling cake, something Chef called "tiramisu," gracing her dessert plate. Archer watched her, and they both completely missed the significant glance that passed between Trip and T'Pol.

When dinner was over, the four of them stepped through the door into the Crew's Mess, which had been converted, as it was every Tuesday evening, into a theatre. As they took their seats, Esilia inquired politely, "Is this . . . movie based on actual events in Earth's history?"

"Not really," Archer answered, claiming the seat next to her. "It's just an adventure story."

"You may find that you have to 'suspend your disbelief,'" T'Pol added helpfully from behind them. "It makes for a more . . . pleasant experience."

"T'Pol has learned to suspend not only her disbelief, but also her logic when watching movies," Archer commented, grabbing a bowl of popcorn being passed out by a crewman. "She's become quite the film buff, although she prefers Westerns."

"As I said," T'Pol replied archly, "it can be a pleasant experience." She checked to make sure Lorian was still asleep as the lights faded and the screen came to life.

Somewhere during the first act, Esilia's hand brushed against Archer's, deep in the popcorn bowl. The tingle of physical contact almost made him lose track of the plot. By the time Indy and Marion met up in the desert, Esilia had moved closer, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. He reached down and took her hand in his, feeling like a high school kid on his first date, and began to caress the back of it gently with his thumb. And when Indy had his final confrontation with the evil Nazis, she clutched his arm tensely, eyes glued to the screen, and snuggled close. He resisted the urge to assure her that the film had a happy ending.

When the lights came up as the closing credits rolled, Esilia breathed a deep satisfied sigh and said delightedly, "What a fascinating story. I have lots of questions."

"I'll bet you do," Archer answered, smiling. He waited as the crew began to file out of the room, some of them sending curious glances his way.

"Now that's a great movie," Trip commented, handing an awake but quiet Lorian to his mother. "Almost as good as Bride of Frankenstein."

Archer intercepted the inevitable query by turning Esilia toward the door. "I'll walk you home." He nodded a goodnight to his officers and ushered the Ikaaran out.

Trip looked at his wife, a smile playing about his lips. "What do you wanna bet we find them necking in the turbo lift?"

"The captain does not indulge in 'Public Displays of Affection,'" T'Pol noted.

"The captain doesn't indulge in 'Public Displays of Anything,'" her husband retorted, "but I think he's about ready to make an exception. He's smitten."

"Smitten," T'Pol tried out the word. "I am not familiar with that term. How, exactly, does one 'smit'?"

Trip held out two fingers, and T'Pol met them with her own. "Let's go put the baby to bed, and I'll show you."

* * *

Stepping out of the lift, Esilia paused long enough in her dissection of the movie's plot to observe, "Your quarters are not on E Deck."

"A gentlemen always escorts his date to her door," Archer answered smoothly, keying in the code to the guest quarters. A blast of hot air hit him as the door slid open. "Whoa. Warm enough in here for you?"

Esilia missed the irony completely. "It's very comfortable, thank you." She entered after him, took off the thermal shirt that she wore around the human-cool ship, and went immediately to the table where she kept a pitcher of water and a glass. "Would you like a drink?"

Archer ignored the totally unintended implications of her offer and shook his head. "No, thanks." He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to look at the couch where she'd tried to seduce him the last time he'd been here. "How is Captain Leev-Sran?" he asked, just to have something to say.

Esilia turned away from him, setting the glass of water down. "I told you that all the scout ships were sent to the border?"

"Right."

She heaved a sigh. "Without any scouts, the Tanaar was basically blind. It ran into an ambush on a routine run. It was destroyed." She put a hand to her throat. "If I'd been there . . ."

Archer stepped up behind her and turned her into his arms. "I'm so sorry." She rested her cheek on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, trying to ignore the growing sizzle of physical contact. After a moment, she looked up, and he decided he really had no choice. He kissed her. There was something indefinable in her expression as she pulled away slightly. "Nobody kisses on Ikaar," she said wistfully. So he kissed her again.

She bunched the fabric of his long sleeved tee-shirt in her hands to keep from touching his skin; even so, Archer felt himself beginning to lose control as he devoured her. The little voice inside his head that whispered, You're moving too fast, had worked itself up to a roar before he could finally tear his mouth away and set her back from him gently. He touched his forehead to hers, trying to catch his breath. He noted with amused detachment that she was a little breathless, as well. "Goodnight, Esilia," he said in a gravelly voice.

"Are you 'spooked' again?" she asked, caught between arousal and irritation.

He backed up a step, then two. "I gotta feed Porthos." He shrugged almost helplessly as she glared at him, a picture of sexual frustration. He was pretty frustrated himself, but he knew that if he didn't leave now, he'd be here until morning. He felt for the door release without breaking eye contact. "See you at breakfast."

As the door shut, he could have sworn she growled at him.


	9. Of Interest And Intimacy

"No, no, no, try it again," Trip insisted, exasperated, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. Perhaps the eighth time would be the charm.

Esilia sighed. "Fine. Two guys walk into a bag—"

"A _bar_! Two guys walk into a _bar_!" The commander gripped his head with both hands. "Don't you people have bars?"

"Apparently not," Esilia sniffed, glancing at Archer for moral support. He was too busy covering his mouth with both hands to give her any assistance. "And if we did, we'd have enough sense not to walk into them. We would walk around them." She used a reasonable, earnest tone, and even arranged her completely smooth, eyebrowless face into a frown.

"You're killing me, woman," Trip complained. "You and T'Pol should go on the road together. A freaking _black hole_ of comedy."

A strange sound exploded from Archer, and he leaned to the side of his chair, wobbled, and then fell over onto the floor. His guffaw came from somewhere underneath the breakfast table. It was the high-pitched laugh of a man who has completely lost control, who would not regain the power of intelligent speech for several moments.

Trip hadn't heard that sound from Archer in almost a decade, and even then, they'd both been very, very drunk. He didn't know if he was sorry or glad that T'Pol wasn't here to witness this.

Esilia stared, askance, at the captain, who was convulsed on the deck in the fetal position, with his arms gripping his sides hard. She considered for a moment calling Sickbay, but then realized that Commander Tucker didn't seem at all alarmed. In fact, the commander was smiling, as if this hacking fit of the captain's was something to be enjoyed.

"It's a silly story," Esilia defended herself. "It makes no sense."

"Clearly, the art of the joke is beyond you," Trip snorted. "Walks into a bag, jeez."

With a series of musical, breathy sighs, Archer slowly regained control of himself, relapsing every few seconds into a throaty chuckle. He wiped the tears streaming from his eyes and dragged himself back up into his seat, still snickering. He avoided Esilia's gaze, which was both confused and offended, as he tried to recover his composure. "Sorry," he managed, with a sheepish peek in her direction.

Esilia regarded the captain with a teasing expression. "Perhaps you should visit the doctor for that condition. Exertion like that could be dangerous, at your age."

Archer gave her his squinty-eyed glare, the one she loved to provoke, and leaned toward her. "You'd be surprised just how much exertion I can take _at my age_ ," he retorted, then turned a dusky red as he realized what he had said. Neither Esilia nor Trip bothered to hide their smirks.  
Satisfied that she had gotten the last shot in, Esilia rose and dropped her napkin amidst the breakfast dishes. "I'll be in the Command Center, working," she added pointedly. "Perhaps you can teach me more jokes later."

Trip watched her go, then turned back to the captain, who was concentrating a little too hard on drinking his orange juice. "Oh, yeah," Tucker drawled, "she's got it bad."

"What?"

"That girl's in love. With you."

"What makes you say that?" Archer asked, striving to sound skeptical.

Trip grinned. "Could be the way every conversation rolls around to, 'Captain Archer said this,' or 'Today, Captain Archer did that.' Or the way her eyes are glued to you whenever you're in the room."

Archer scoffed. "She stares at everyone like that. You just notice it more because of the eyebrow thing."

"Oh, come on, Cap'n, don't tell me you haven't noticed how she takes absolutely every opportunity to be near you? You don't think she hunted down Enterprise across who knows how many light-years just to give us systems upgrades, do you?" The engineer watched as Archer's eyes moved to the window and grew distant. This conversation was about to be shut down, he guessed.

Archer's voice was soft and thoughtful when he spoke again after several moments. "You know that old joke about the guy in the flood, and he lets a rowboat, a speedboat, and a hovercraft go by because he's waiting for God to save him?"

"And he drowns."

"Yeah, and then he's mad at God for letting him die, and God says, 'well, what happened to the two boats and the hovercraft I sent?'"

"Yeah."

Archer wiped his mouth with the napkin and stood, straightening his uniform. "You're the hovercraft, Trip. And I've decided not to drown." With that, he walked out, pausing only to clap  
Trip's shoulder as he passed.

* * *

Porthos romped around like the puppy he used to be, loving the attention being lavished upon him. It was his nightly shipwalk, and Archer always made it a point to visit the ship's nursery.  
There were eight Enterprise children now, ranging in age from newborn to four years old. Because the crew's quarters were generally small, Archer had okayed a plan to convert half of Cargo Bay Three into a secure, soundproof nursery. Crewmembers could spend time with their children in a less cramped space, and it also provided a place for the children to be cared for when their parents were on duty. It took some juggling, and constant maintenance of the duty log, but Archer tried to give parents enough time off to be with their kids.

At Reed's insistence, the nursery had another function, as a secure shelter. Now, a Tactical Alert not only included an automatic computer command to polarize Enterprise's hull plating and bring the weapons online, but would also cause the captain, or whoever was in command, to direct all caregivers to the secure nursery. Non-tactical personnel, both assigned and volunteer, plus at least one MACO, had the responsibility to account for and protect Enterprise's children in the event of hostilities. They were under strict orders: any of their other duties were secondary.

The thought of going into battle with children onboard made Archer's blood run cold. He would do whatever he could to avoid it.

Porthos loved the nursery. The beagle showed great patience as toddlers climbed over him, and small pre-school aged hands petted his bristled fur. He was a useful tool in getting the children to bed; games of go-fetch usually resulted in much running around by the children and none at all by the dog. Without moving much at all, Porthos exhausted the children; after his visits, they lay down on their cots and slept like logs.

Leaving the nursery, Porthos perked his beagle ears up as far as they could go, and bounded off down the hall. Archer strode after him, and nearly collided with Esilia, who was chatting around the bend with Crewman Kelly.

"Ladies," Archer nodded, bringing the dog to heel.

"Hello, Captain," Kelly said, and Esilia echoed it after a moment. Kelly, who was already late for her shift in Engineering, excused herself and took off.

Archer tried not to be awkward. "Porthos and I were just taking a walk. Wanna join us?"

"Thank you, yes." Esilia reached down and petted the dog. Porthos licked her fingers. They meandered around the saucer section, talking about inconsequential things. As was his custom, Archer visited several departments, the Gamma shift crew whom he did not see very often, since he was usually on duty during Alpha and Beta shifts. Those crewmembers, junior staff mostly, rarely interacted with their captain. He felt the least he could do was put in a little face time each evening, make some small talk, and generally convey to them that he knew who they were and appreciated them. He did this in the most casual manner, by addressing them by rank and name, maybe a cursory inspection of the area, then a satisfied, "As you were," as he left.

Esilia noticed that the crew stood a little straighter as the captain left each area. These people would walk through fire for their commanding officer; from the ship's logs she had read, that feeling was mutual.

They walked the ship until the little dog's tongue began to hang out of the side of his mouth, a sure sign that he had had enough exercise. Archer stopped at his own quarters. "He's hungry," he said apologetically, unlocking the door. He invited her with a hand gesture to go in before him.

Porthos moved right to his bowl and sat expectantly, as if his master had forgotten what was required. As Archer poured the kibble, Chef's special recipe, into the dish and topped up the water bowl, Esilia prowled around the room. It was functional and neat, with very few personal touches. There was a utilitarian blanket on the bed, and several pillows. Only Porthos' corner looked at all lived-in. She examined the Cochrane statue sitting on a ledge and commented, "Nice doll."

"It's a trophy," Archer replied testily.

She picked up each of the photographs on the desk in turn, of Tucker and Archer, both looking quite young, standing next to a tiny ship; of five or six of the crew, wearing billed hats, posing in front of a shuttle pod in bright sunlight—Archer with an utterly delighted expression on his face; of an older man who could only have been Archer's father, solemnly holding an engine component of some sort in his hands. She placed each photo carefully back in its original position.

She heard a soft sound behind her, then felt hands on her shoulders. Archer ran his chin across the top of her head, savoring the smell and feel of her hair. His fingers deftly untied the ribbon at the base of her braid, and spread her hair across his hands. He'd been itching to do that for over a year. She began to tremble. He bent his head and nuzzled her neck, and the shock of it made her grab the desk edge.

"Esilia," Archer's voice rumbled against the side of her throat, just under her ear, "tell me to stop. Or, . . . not."

She turned in his arms and eased the zipper of his jumpsuit down to his waist. "Captain," she murmured.

"You can call me Jon," he interrupted, amused.  
" _Jghonn_ ," she pronounced it in that liquid gargle-language she had spoken when she had first come on board. He thought it was the sexiest word in the universe. Her fingers worked on the buttons of his jersey—there must have been a hundred of the damned things—as she went on, "You know we don't . . ."

He bent slightly at the knees to meet her at eye level. "Mmm-hmm." Both the jersey and the jumpsuit slid off of his shoulders and down his arms. She made short work of the blue undershirt, tossing it impatiently to the side. Her thermal jacket and blouse soon followed. Her hands crawled through the hair on his chest; he was a little self-conscious about it, but the electric sensation took over and banished every single thought except his craving for her from his mind.

He captured her mouth as if it were an enemy flag, and ran his hands up the front of her, relieved in some petty part of him that at least breasts seemed to be a constant in the galaxy. Cupping her, he almost chuckled as he realized the old adage was true: more than a handful _would_ be a waste.

She wore a small pendant, in a shape similar to a teardrop, now resting against her bare skin. The stone was a deep green-blue, a cross between an emerald and a sapphire. At the query in his eyes, she said, "It's a _salish_ , the most rare, most valuable jewel on Ikaar. It was a gift to me when I was born." Archer bent his head and kissed her throat, just above the vee of the pendant's chain.

Esilia's knees seemed to be getting a little weak, so he picked her up and carried her to his bed. Placing her gently in the middle, he searched her face for any hesitation. There was none. He knew he had to hold himself under strict control; if this was the price for having her in his bed, he'd gladly pay it. He clicked off the main light, leaving only the desk lamp on across the room.

Long fingers roamed over his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, leaving a tingling trail. He copied the movements with his own fingers, then his lips. Esilia pulled away for a moment, her face flushed. " _Jghonn_ ," she whispered, "are you sure . . .?"

"Sssh. Stop talking."

"But . . ." It was clear she was giving him one last out. She had researched human customs as well.

He pinned her with green eyes, brows raised. "A little less conversation, a little more action," he said, quoting an old, obscure song. She got the point and settled into the task of introducing Archer to the art of lovemaking, Ikaaran style.

At times yoga-esque, at times deep but gentle massage, Ikaaran intimacy made human sex look like armed combat. She taught him that his whole body was one constant pleasure zone. Never had the hollow behind his ear, the line of his ribcage, the curve of his hip, the plain of his back, been studied in such minute detail. In turn, he handled her like the most fragile glass, his fingertips whispering over her skin. He traced a line with his index finger from the nape of her neck, down her back, buttock, leg, across the dip behind her knee, to the knob of her ankle, and discovered this path to be so sensitive, it made her entire body vibrate like a harp string. His own body vibrated on the same chord. He couldn't tell where he ended and she began.

He had considered himself in the past to be a careful, attentive lover. He now knew what that term really meant. It was the difference between a wind-sprint and a marathon.

No wonder Esilia had been so worried about his age and stamina. Hour after hour of slow, steady build-up; the tension of hands, fingertips, and lips, stretching him to the breaking point; the delicious anticipation—and nothing could have prepared him for the onslaught of physical and mental release. He felt like a surfer overtaken by a sudden storm at sea, overwhelmed by that one perfect deadly wave, finally thrown, shattered, exhilarated, and exhausted, onto the shore. He wanted to lie there and never move again. He wanted more.

He summoned enough strength to give Esilia one last, lingering kiss. She sprawled across his chest, head tucked in the hollow of his shoulder. He pulled the blanket up to her neck, knowing that the room was a bit too cool for her liking. In no time, she dropped into a light sleep. He doubted he could command any of his limbs to move, yet his mind raced.

It hadn't been the energetic, acrobatic, room-rocking sex of his younger—and not so young—days, by any means. He probably would never experience that again. Could he turn his back on everything he had learned over the past thirty-odd years, every instinct ingrained in him by thousands of years of human evolution, in order to feel the way he was feeling right now, with this woman?

_Oh, hell, yes_.

He loved her, that was clear. He was attracted to her, and wanted her. Now, he was totally possessed by her. He tried to imagine life aboard Enterprise without her; the picture wouldn't even form. Then he thought about spending the rest of his days arguing with this woman, studying the stars they both loved, trying to sneak a few words edgewise into conversations, maybe even raising a child.

That felt real and right. He was fifty-three years old, nearly a hundred light years from a home he would never see again, and he had finally found his soul mate. Perhaps the universe had finally forgiven him for the many crimes he had committed out here in the Expanse. Perhaps his penance was over.

She stirred, and reached up a hand to trace his square jaw, his prominent chin. He grabbed her hand, beginning to feel the familiar tingling and positive there wasn't a thing he could do about it. She lifted her head from his shoulder to get a better look at his expression. "Are you well?"

"More than well," he answered in a husky voice. He felt her shift, look toward the bedside clock, and then begin to pull away. They were both aware that the captain would be expected on the Bridge in less than two hours. "Esilia?"

"Hmm?"

"I want you to stay."

"Most of the crew is likely still asleep. Nobody will see me leave." She rubbed her cheek on his chest, and then pushed against the mattress to rise.

He tightened his hold. "I'd like you to stay." He realized that in seven years aboard this ship, no one had ever shared this bed with him. He told her as much.

"Not even T'Pol?" He tilted his head to search her face. "She's your second in command. You work closely with her."

"I work closely with Trip, too," he laughed, trying to dispel the tension. "I've never slept with any of my crew. I never would."

"You wanted to, though."

"Sleep with Trip? No, that's really not my thing." She turned a tense face away from him and he stopped teasing. "Seel. Listen to me. You're not a second choice. You're not a consolation prize. You're the one I want. You're the one I choose. Stay, please."

"Well, then," she said finally, and with some satisfaction. "In that case. . ." She snuggled back down and went to sleep.


	10. Of Patterns And Promises

He didn't think he was being overly sensitive, but there were definitely some strange looks coming from Hoshi's direction at Travis Mayweather and Deirdre MacKenzie's wedding. She and Esilia had spent much of the reception, a lively _ceilidh_ in the tradition of MacKenzie's Scottish ancestors, in deep discussion over the spiked punch. From across the rec room, he could tell that Esilia was in full question mode, that Hoshi was taking the conversation very seriously, and (from the way that both women's eyes kept drifting toward him and then darting guiltily away) that he was the topic.

He had spent some time this morning explaining the purpose of the upcoming wedding to Esilia. Like everything else, this human custom intrigued her, and she had peppered him with questions about the variations among different Earth cultures. When he had exhausted his own limited knowledge on the subject, he'd simply reached for his padd, called up detailed information from the ship's database, and let her read it.

He supposed it was the starship variation on the lazy-Sunday-morning-in-bed-with-the-paper theme. He'd been propped comfortably against a pile of pillows, Esilia resting back on his bare chest, both of them buried under two extra quilted, filled blankets, or "duvets," as his mother used to call them. He had discovered over the past two weeks that Esilia liked to sleep this way, sharing their body heat.

_"You are so beautiful," he whispered, taking advantage of her distraction and pitching his voice low. She heard him anyway._

_"I was very much sought after on Ikaar," she answered primly. He laughed; nope, she hadn't lost her bluntness. "Are you considered beautiful on your world?" She tipped her head up to look at him as he gave a derisive snort._

_"Ah, no," he said quite decisively. "I guess the most you can say about me is that I have an . . . interesting face."_

_She narrowed her eyes. "Interesting is good," she murmured, "for an explorer. And we are explorers, aren't we." And then, setting the padd aside, she proceeded to chart the territory._

He wondered if the crew suspected anything yet; he didn't think so. While they had not been secretive, they had been discreet. Most days, they didn't even eat their meals together. Esilia was still working on interfacing her technology with the ship's systems. All of her spare time seemed devoted to that cause.

But now, gazing suspiciously at Esilia and Hoshi, he thought maybe he'd underestimated the speed of the ship's grapevine, or the perception of the ship's Communications Officer.

Before he could excuse himself and escape, he was captured by Corporal MacKenzie (try as he might, he just could not think of her as "Deirdre") and pressed into a five-couple Scottish dance, aptly named "The Military Two-Step." He stopped worrying about whatever Hoshi and Esilia were plotting long enough to concentrate self-consciously on not crushing the bride's feet with his size elevens as she flung him around the room. The dance itself was a repeating pattern, and he found himself almost enjoying himself once he'd gotten the hang of it. So much so that, after a grinning, breathless bow to his partner, he forgot to dash for the door, and was ambushed by his Communications Officer and pulled back onto the dance floor for a decidedly slower, more intimate number.

He tried to catch Trip's eye over Hoshi's head resting comfortably just beneath his shoulder, to beg or even command him to cut in, but the damned engineer simply toasted him silently with his glass of wine. Once he had danced with Hoshi, he was trapped; other female crewmembers approached, one by one, and took this unique opportunity to dance with their captain. He couldn't refuse. He hoped that whoever had programmed the music hadn't included any freestyle dance tunes; he had no desire to look spastic in front of his crew. As it was, it seemed that every song was slow and romantic, which he thought he could handle, as long as nothing more intricate than shuffling one's feet in a circle was required. Finally, another Highland reel began, this one with long rows of dancers, and he seized the chance to escape the dance floor.

He retrieved the padd from the table where he'd left it and ducked out of the room. He checked the time; it was past twenty-three hundred hours. He should go to the Bridge, check in with the Watch Officer. Instead, he headed for the lift and his quarters. After a hot shower, he'd rewatch one of his favorite water polo matches until he fell asleep.

Fifteen minutes into the game, his door chime rang. He opened it to find Esilia, two glasses of punch in her hands. "You didn't want to stay for the party?" he asked, stepping backward to let her enter.

"It was interesting, but I'd seen enough," she answered, handing him a glass. "A fascinating human custom, this dancing."

"You don't dance on Ikaar?" Archer filled Porthos' bowl with water, just to have something to think about besides touching her.

"Rarely. Our mating ceremony is not quite so . . . lively." Her hands fluttered expressively as she tried to find a way to describe that which had no translation. "Your _avyah_ decides, and gives youâ€”well, 'gives' isn't the right word, but, that's really all it isâ€”and you go with your mate."

Archer stared at her from the shadow of the tiny kitchen alcove. She hadn't used the term for mother or father, so he suspected the word was a title. "What's an ' _avyah_ '?"

"Your guardian. My aunt, Leev-Sran, was mine."

"Ah. So, . . .?" He raised his eyebrows.

Esilia shrugged. "So, technically, I can't be given, because she's dead now."

"Can you . . . give yourself?" He took a step toward her and relieved her of her glass, placing it on the desk.

She frowned a little. "I don't think it's ever been done."

"Why don't we try it?"

She just looked at him and waited.

He put his hands on her shoulders gently, nudging her backwards toward the bed. "I want you to stay on Enterprise. With me. Will you stay with me, and be my wife?" He tried to keep his face neutral. The nervousness he had felt the last time he had attempted this, all those years ago in San Francisco, paled in comparison to the reactor-sized knot in his gut right now.

Esilia thought about it for a full, maddening minute. "Yes," she agreed finally, and pulled him down on top of her.

* * *

Archer stared distractedly at his eggs and toast, which were rapidly solidifying on his plate. He took another sip of orange juice to soothe his dry throat. It didn't help. Esilia was noisily enjoying her latest food obsession, plain yoghurt, moaning softly after every tangy spoonful. Usually, the thought of consuming such unrelenting tartness would make Archer's entire body pucker, but this morning, his mind was elsewhere. After the fourth or fifth sighing groan, Archer stood abruptly, and held out his hand. "Would you come with me, please?"

Surprised, Esilia didn't move. The door to the Captain's Mess slid open, revealing Trip and T'Pol, who both had a standing invitation to use the private dining room. Lorian was not with them. Before they could enter, however, Archer addressed them. His voice sounded strangely tense. "Trip, T'Pol, if you don't mind, I need your help."

Esilia found she couldn't read his demeanor. She ventured, "Is there something the matter? Have I done something wrong?"

He simply kept his hand extended, until she finally rose and took it. "Nope."

The three of them followed the captain's lead, bewildered and not a little nervous. Was there some emergency they were not aware of?

Archer stepped into the Crew's Mess, which at this hour was populated by both the A and B shifts, all helping themselves to the buffet-style breakfast. Archer maneuvered through the milling crowd to the front of the room, conversations stopping as he passed. The captain rarely took his meals in the Crew's Mess, and only ever really hung out there at night when it was empty and he couldn't sleep. He still had hold of Esilia's hand, pulling her gently behind him, itself an odd sight, since the captain never fraternized to that extent. He was a man of constant small touches, a grasped elbow, an encouraging pat on a shoulder, but at the same time, he was intensely private; openly holding hands with a woman was completely out of character, a fact not lost on the crew.

He halted just in front of the big window, and waited while the last of the noise dwindled down to silence. All eyes were on him, expectant. Just do it, Jon. He cleared his throat and spoke both to Esilia and to the room in general.

"As you know, in some human traditions, including mine, it is customary for two people who intend to marry to publicly make vows to each other, which they then spend the rest of their lives trying to keep. So." He grasped her other hand, so that they faced each other. Esilia looked curious and interested.

"I, Jonathan Archer, promise you, Esilia, daughter of the house of Lavaoss-Saanaa, that I will cherish you and protect you for all of my days. I promise I will always put your welfare before my own. I promise I will be faithful to you for the whole rest of my life. And I promise I will try to find some way every day to make you happy." He reached into the pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out the ring made of silver alloy, crafted by the quartermaster at his request from a matched set of old fashioned pens. He had guessed at Esilia's ring size, and as he slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, he noticed with relief that it was only a little loose.  
Esilia regarded him for a moment with fathomless dark eyes, then began to speak in her own language. He recognized his own name and hers among the liquid syllables. When she finished, she reached up and removed the green-blue teardrop pendant, her _salish_ , that had hung around her neck since her birth and placed it around his.

"T'Pol," Archer prompted quietly and seriously, "you have to say, 'I now pronounce you husband and wife.'"

The First Officer looked at him blankly. "Why?"

He chose the most obvious reason. "Because you're the ranking officer, that's why. I can't marry myself."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," T'Pol repeated dutifully.

Archer smiled briefly but affectionately at his bride, and squeezed her hand, feeling his ring on her finger. He heard Trip's voice in a stage whisper. "Uh, Cap'n, aren't you forgetting something?" Before Archer could respond, the sound of bells filled the room, as crewmembers began to tap gently on their glasses, cups, and plates with their utensils. "You gotta kiss the bride."

Refusing to blush, Archer bent slightly at the knees and leaned in for a modest but firm kiss, to what seemed to him to be thunderous but unnecessary applause. He smiled slightly, glancing around self-consciously, and said, "I'll be on the Bridge." One last squeeze of Esilia's hand, and he took himself off to duty.

* * *

Archer studied the inventory one last time as T'Pol briefed him, once again, on the upcoming negotiations. He was leaving her in command, taking Trip and Reed, the former for his engineering knowledge, the latter for protection. Although the captain of the merchant ship seemed friendly enough over long distance communication, his insistence that they discuss terms over a meal, on board the freighter, made Reed nervous, and Archer was willing to yield to his security officer's expertise.

T'Pol had just finished her latest list of warnings when the chime to the Ready Room sounded.  
"Come in," Archer invited, and was surprised to find Esilia standing there. She had never come to his office before; in fact, in the six months they'd been married, and in all the time she had been on board before that, she'd only been on the Bridge once.

His wife did not look happy. He knew why.

"I was about to come and see you," Archer said quietly. He raised his hand slightly, signifying that it was not necessary for Trip and T'Pol to leave the room. This wouldn't be pleasant, but it wasn't personal, either.

"There's a Wyric ship approaching," Esilia said, in a tone that begged him to tell her she was wrong.

"Yes," Archer answered. "They have anti-matter that they're willing to sell us." Oddly enough, in preliminary talks, the Wyric had been most interested in, of all things, seeds, which Enterprise preserved for its hydroponics laboratory. They could spare several kilograms of various plant seeds, from citrus fruits to cucumbers, and still have enough to feed the entire ship for years. The Wyric merchant had come across Earth food some months back, and now jumped at the chance to corner the market on these delicacies found nowhere else in the known galaxy.

"You're not going to trade with them are you?" Archer's silence was his answer. "You can'tâ€”they're cold-blooded killers. You don't know these people. They murdered my whole family when they ambushed the Tanaar."

Archer fought the urge to pace. "Seel," he said, "this is the first time in two years that we've come across anyone willing to sell us this much anti-matter for a price we can afford. I can't let this opportunity go by. Who knows when we'll get another chance."

"I can scout for another source of anti-matter," she argued back, sounding reasonable. "That's what I do."

He spread his hands. "I know that," he answered deliberately, trying to keep calm and focused. "But in the meantime, the opportunity is here, now, and I can't ignore the needs of the ship based on a war that we're not even involved in."

His wife went still. "What if I suggested that _you_ trade with the _Xindi_? How would you feel then?"

He immediately opened his mouth to debate the ridiculousness of that comparison, then shut it just as quickly. These people had killed Esilia's closest relatives, and had tried to blow her out of space, as well. The situations were not so different. "I understand what you're saying. I really do."

"Then let me find you another source."

The captain took a deep breath, feeling, without seeking, the unspoken support from his two senior officers. "Your request is denied. I'm sorry, but this is the best thing for the ship."  
Archer would have preferred tears, but Ikaarans, he had learned, did not cry. Instead, Esilia's face went utterly blank, and she folded her hands over her abdomen as if she'd just been sucker-punched. She held his gaze, black eyes unreadable, then nodded almost imperceptibly and left the room.

As he always did when he was about to lose his composure, Archer turned his back on the room to look out the window. His hands clenched at his sides.

"Cap'n?" Trip asked uncomfortably.

"Please," his voice sounded gravelly, so he cleared his throat, "please tell Mr. Reed to meet us in Launch Bay One in ten minutes." He held himself stiff until Trip and T'Pol left, then braced his hands on the wall, lowered his head, and took several deep, shaky breaths.

When he got to the launch bay, Esilia was just climbing into her scout ship. Panic pushed him across the room quickly to grab her arm. "What are you doing?"

Her expression was devastated and hollow as she replied, "If the Wyric scan Enterprise and find an Ikaaran bio-sign, they won't do business with you. I won't go far."

He wished he could find a reason to forbid her to go, but her point was sound. They couldn't afford to have this deal go sour. Slowly, he released her arm and backed away. Even if they hadn't been in a public place, he doubted he would have been able to find the right words to heal the rift between them. And at that moment, he wasn't at all sure she'd come back. "I'm sorry."

She ducked into the ship without a word and closed the hatch.

* * *

The mood in the shuttle pod should have been exultant. Not only had they acquired enough anti-matter to last Enterprise for a year (if they were careful), they had paid what, to them, seemed almost a nominal price. In addition to the seeds, they had transferred crates of oranges, tomatoes, apples, pears, and cantaloupes, in stasis, all of it now exclusive to the Wyric trader. He could name his own price.

Trip had ended up negotiating most of the deal. The captain had been distracted and distant, not his usual gregarious self, despite the hospitality of the Wyric merchant. With the Wyric completely unaware of any ties between the humans and the Ikaarans, there was no tension evident in the transaction or during the multi-course meal that followed. As with the Vulcans and Andorians, the humans could easily ally themselves with both the Wyric and the Ikaarans, and would need to walk a careful line in the future between the two enemies.

Reed and Trip traded worried glances behind the captain, who was silently piloting the pod into the launch bay. The space the Ikaaran ship usually occupied was glaringly empty. Archer powered down the pod, performed a perfunctory post-flight check, and shot out of the craft as if it were on fire. "Take care of off-loading this, will you, Trip?" he requested in a deceptively quiet tone as he strode to the door.

"Sure thing, Cap'n," the commander answered, and shot the lieutenant another anxious look.

It was six days before Esilia came back, in the middle of ship's night. The officer of the watch gave her permission to dock, but, not being aware of the circumstances of her departure, did not think it necessary to inform the captain that his wife had returned. So Esilia let herself into the captain's dark quarters, expecting him to be asleep. He was wide awake, as he had been every night she'd been gone.

He watched her enter the room, then pushed himself up against the pillows. There was no point in pretending to be sleeping. After a moment of silence, he realized that he would have to make the first move. "Seel. I'm sorry." She didn't answer right away, so he figured he might as well get it all out there. "I hurt you, and I'm sorry for that."

She pulled a padd out of the pocket of her jacket and tossed it onto his lap, her expression hidden by darkness. In the blue glow, he could make out a map; a planetary system which, from the coordinates, was less than three days away at Warp One.

"You can get anti-matter at the trading post orbiting the fourth planet's second moon." Her tone was level. She hadn't accepted his apology yet.

He reached out and caught her hand, surprised as he always was at how hot her skin was. "Seel, come on, sit down." She obliged, stiffly. He rested his forehead against her arm and sighed. "I have to do what's best for this ship," he said slowly, "and I can't put the crew in jeopardy to spare someone's feelings. Not even yours. I know you're mad at me, and I understand why, but we needed that anti-matter."

After half an eternity, she reached down and stroked his face. "Promise me that next time you'll let me at least try to find another source, before you deal with those . . . murderers again?"

He could do that. "I promise." He drew her down to lie beside him. "Am I forgiven?"

"Almost."

He nuzzled her neck. "You know, there's an old human custom that happens after two people have a disagreement like this."

"Oh?" she responded, intrigued.

"Yeah, it's called 'making up.'"

"Is that anything like 'making love?'" There was a hint of a smile in her voice.

"They're closely related." His fingers found the clasp of her jacket, unhooking it.

"Well," suggested Esilia, "why don't you show me how humans make up," she shrugged out of her jacket and shirt in one motion, then pulled the blanket aside, "and then you can show me how humans . . . make love."

Archer smiled against her lips. "Deal."

Seven months later, they welcomed Alillia-saanaa Archer, "Lily" for short, into the world.


	11. Of Danger And Discipline

Sometime, during a rare moment of peace, Archer realized that he was a hundred times better at commanding a crew of eighty than he was at dealing with the two hard-headed females with whom he shared his quarters. It wasn't a good idea, he concluded, to remain a bachelor into your fifties. You never recovered from the shock of losing total control of your whole life at that advanced age.

This morning, although he had risen at oh-five hundred hours, three hours before the official start of his shift, he was rushing to get to the Bridge on time. It wasn't as if there was any punishment involved in being late, he thought ruefully; he was, after all, still the captain. It was just the principle of the thing.

The reason for his tardiness was sitting on the floor of the cabin, legs spread wide, busy examining the inside of a padd, its exposed circuitry still blinking. He glanced around the room with a sinking feeling. The bedside table was empty. Damn. He'd have to redo all of those calculations; well, that would serve him right for neglecting to transfer his data to the main computer before he went to bed last night. And for leaving it in the reach of a curious five year old.

"Lily," he prodded. Said five-year old looked up innocently. "How many times have I told you not to take apart my stuff?"

She cocked her head to consider a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know. Twelve?" That was her current favorite number. "I can put it back together, you know."

Archer hauled her up by her shoulders. "That's not the point. Come on, you're going to be late for school and I'm going to be late for work." He hustled her out the door, pausing only to toss the remains of his padd onto the bed. The scary part was, she'd probably have it reassembled and in perfect working order before she went to bed tonight.

He knew they made an odd picture, strolling down the corridors, side by side. Since she could toddle, Lily had insisted on accompanying him whenever she could, her tiny legs almost running to match his long stride. While Porthos had still been alive, the three of them could be seen, day and night, inching along, dog and child stopping every few yards to explore whatever caught their nose or eye. As she had gotten bigger and more steady on her feet, she would skip ahead, hiding around corners, giggling, until Archer caught up, and bursting out to "scare" him. Now, with her new found schoolgirl dignity, she walked sedately alongside him. Lily had memorized the names and ranks (although nowadays, they rarely used anyone's rank designation, except for Archer's, T'Pol's, and Reed's) of every crewmember on board, and greeted each one politely in her tiny voice, copying her father's acknowledging nod.

"When is Mommy coming back?" she asked now, as they stepped into the turbo lift, heading for the nursery/schoolroom. Her voice held little eagerness; for her, Esilia's return from this latest scouting trip meant the end of freedom. Esilia was the more strict parent, far less indulgent with the girl than her husband was. In fact, Archer was about as successful at following the bedtime/schoolwork/proper meal rules for Lily as he had been at following the no cheese rule for Porthos.

"Sometime today," Archer answered. "So we'll need to clean up the room a bit before she gets home, okay?"

"Sure thang," she drawled. Clearly, she'd been spending time lately with Lorian. Now, there was a chilling thought. He wondered what adventure his daughter and Trip and T'Pol's seven year old son were plotting now. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

He dropped her off at school with a kiss on her forehead (right above the eyebrows that she had—thank heaven—inherited from his side of the family, and the nose ridge she had gotten from her mother's), trying to pat down her flyaway silver hair, which was already escaping the awkward braid he had inflicted on it this morning. He licked his thumb and wiped away a smudge of jelly from her cheek, then, as he always did, crouched down to eye level. "No trouble today, Lily, okay?"

"I promise, Daddy." When she gave him her serious, earnest black-eyed expression, he could almost believe her. Smiling, he turned on his heel and headed for the Bridge.  
When he stepped out of the lift, Reed greeted him with, "Good morning, sir, I was just about to comm you."

Archer slid into his chair, nodding to T'Pol and Hoshi, already at their posts. He didn't think he was that late. "What's the matter?"

"I've been monitoring conditions at the scout ship's coordinates. There have been some minor storms over the past several hours." Reed sent the data to the command chair's monitor. "They seem to be moving closer to Esilia's position."

A tingle of alarm worked its way up Archer's spine. His wife was in a low orbit around an uninhabited planet, scouting for trinium deposits. She had years of experience, and her one-person scout ship was specially equipped to scan for the mineral. He had put aside his misgivings and let her take on the mission, despite the fact that she was pregnant with their second child. He turned to T'Pol. "Is she in any danger?"

The Vulcan checked her viewer once again, and then answered, "The storms' trajectories are erratic, and they are becoming stronger. It would be best if she returned to Enterprise now."  
Archer nodded to Hoshi. "Hail her."

Esilia's voice was terse; either she was in the middle of a test, or she was worried about the storms herself.

"Seel, we're reading some bad weather from up here," Archer tried not to sound overly concerned, "and it looks like it's going to overtake you. Return to Enterprise."

"Captain, I just need another hour or so, and I'll have complete data. If I stop now, I'll have to redo a big chunk of it."

Archer studied the screen on his chair. T'Pol transmitted the likely path of the storms, three of them, which were converging with hurricane-like force. An hour from now, it might be difficult for Esilia's sturdy but small ship to break orbit. He shook his head. "No, it looks like it's gonna get bad. Return to Enterprise." The silence conveyed her disagreement. "That's an order, Seel."

His wife's voice was testy and tired when she finally replied. "One more hour."

"I said, that's an order."

"And I'm not a member of your crew."

"Seel," he repeated through gritted teeth. There was no response. " _Seel_." The shake of Hoshi's head told him that Esilia had closed the channel. Dammit. He drew a deep breath, barely holding on to his temper, and rose from his chair. His lips hardly moved as he turned to Reed. "Notify me when she ties down in the launch bay." Reed simply nodded, aware that Archer was this close to detonating, and not wanting to be the trigger. "I'll be in my Ready Room." The air on the Bridge shook as the captain passed by.

When the door slid shut behind him, Reed stared across at T'Pol. "For a moment there, I was afraid he was going to order me to charge weapons."

"Indeed," was all the Vulcan replied.

* * *

An hour and forty minutes later, Reed commented to T'Pol, "The scout is approaching the launch bay. Shall I inform the captain?"

She raised an eyebrow a millimeter. "The captain asked to be notified when she tied down. She has not done so yet. I believe the extra few minutes would be beneficial to us all." Reed couldn't argue with that.

The captain emerged from his Ready Room with a face like stone. He said nothing as he left the Bridge, only raised his eyebrows as Reed stepped into the lift with him. After a moment, he asked, eyes forward, "Are you an escort for me, or a bodyguard for her?"

Out of self-preservation, the lieutenant chose not to answer.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," Archer assured him glacially, "I don't intend to kill my wife. Not today." He strode toward the launch bay without a backward glance.

Esilia was just climbing out of her ship, slightly awkward with the added weight of the baby, when they arrived. Her expression said that she knew the captain was displeased with her, but her face completely drained of color when she realized just how angry he was. For the first time since she had come aboard, she stood in the presence of the man the crew still referred to in secret as "Airlock Archer." There was no warmth in his eyes, no forgiveness in his demeanor, and no trace of her husband. He stopped about three feet away from her, hands clasped behind his back, mouth a straight, flat line.

"Get all the data you needed?" Open space was warmer than his voice.

For a moment, Esilia wished she were armed. Well, she didn't think Lieutenant Reed would allow the captain to commit homicide. "Yes."

"Worth sending a team down?"

She cleared her throat. He sounded way too reasonable. "Yes. There are substantial trinium deposits, fairly close to the surface. They should be easy to mine."

"Hmm," he nodded, "good." After a beat, she began to sidle past him, toward the door. He stopped her by raising his hand slightly, palm out. She froze. Bending his knees slightly to come down to her level, he leaned in closely, holding her black gaze with his icy green one. "One more thing. You may not be a member of my crew, Esilia, but you are my responsibility." She swallowed, but said nothing. "If you ever, _ever_ , disobey a direct order from me again," he continued, every word deliberate, "our children will be visiting you in the brig. Understood?"

She nodded her head once and whispered, "Understood."

He clenched his teeth. "Dismissed."

Esilia was glad for Reed's supporting hand at her elbow as she made her way to her quarters. She knew the lieutenant could feel her shaking, but he was too polite to comment. Instead, he escorted her to her door, keyed in the code, and led her inside, depositing her gently on the small couch. He poured her a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully.

Pausing at the door before taking his leave and heading back to the Bridge, Reed observed, "If it's any consolation, every single one of the senior staff has been in that position at some time or another, even T'Pol. He'll get over it pretty quickly. He only reacts that way because he worries about us."

She offered a shaky smile. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He smiled back and let the door slide shut, leaving her alone.

* * *

Trip whistled as he passed the transporter pad, on his way back to Engineering. He didn't usually work this late, but that damned Ikaaran interface was still giving him fits. Besides, he and T'Pol were sniping at each other a lot lately, and he needed a break.

He knew exactly what it was about, even if she wouldn't admit it. Lorian was seven, her mating cycle was approaching, and he wanted another child. She didn't. She had concluded, logically, that the population on Enterprise had to be carefully controlled. He didn't disagree, but why did that mean they had to limit themselves to one child? It wasn't as if the crew were rabbits. Only Phlox and Amanda embraced a "more is better" philosophy; they were expecting their fourth child in five years.

A movement caught the corner of his eye as he passed the transporter alcove. He stopped short, and warily backed up. The transporter was off-limits, and he hadn't assigned anyone to work here.  
What he found was not a dangerous intruder, but rather Lily Archer, sitting cross-legged in the corner, far away from the transporter controls. She was intent on the torn-apart padd in her hand, and didn't hear Trip approach.

"Hey, munchkin," the engineer said softly, crouching down next to her. "What are doing down here all by yourself?"

Lily looked up, her little mouth turned down in a frown. "I have to put this back together." She gestured with her microdriver at the blinking components.

"Where's your mom and dad?" It wasn't unusual to find the kid tucked away in odd places, but usually Jon was just around the corner.

She answered matter of factly. "Mommy's confined to quarters and Daddy's mad."

_Well, there's something you don't hear every day_ , Trip thought, and said aloud, "Ah. Well, you wanna come hang with me? I've got some stuff you can take apart in Engineering, since you seem to be doing such a good job with that padd."

Black eyes met his, and she grinned Jon's grin. "Okay."

Hours later, after replacing the last in a series of conduit panels with Lily's "help," Trip checked the time and swore. It was long past dinnertime, but neither one of them had noticed.  
"Tucker to Archer."

"Archer." In those two snapped syllables, Trip could hear fear and worry, bordering on panic.

"Ah, sorry, Cap'n, I meant to call you earlier. Lily's with me, down in Engineering."

A few seconds of silence ticked by. "I'll come get her," Archer said, in a relieved voice.

"Actually, Cap'n, I was thinking we'd get something to eat and maybe she could spend the night with us. Lorian should be just about done with his nightly Vulcan lesson. I thought you might have some . . . things to work out." He left the "with your wife" part unspoken, aware of the tiny listening ears right next to him.

Another pause. "I'll get her first thing in the morning."

Trip smiled. "Take your time." He looked down at Lily, who gazed up at him with adoring eyes. "Let's go find some pie."

Archer snapped off the comm and shook his head. These women were going to be the death of him. He summoned the lift to D-Deck, where he had been systematically searching for his missing daughter. Two scares in one day; at this rate, he was a heart attack waiting to happen.

He headed toward his own quarters. He hoped his wife was game for a little making up. By the expression on her face when she saw him enter, he could tell that she was. Very game.


	12. Of Lorian And Lily

"Oh, bloody sodding _hell_!" The twelve-year old threw the dysfunctional plasma injector across the room. It bounced off the sofa and landed on the floor with a clunk.

" _Lily_ ," her father said sternly from the bed.

"Sorry, Dad," she pouted.

"I'm serious, Lily."

"Sorry, Dad." The girl retrieved the injector and set back to work taking it apart. "Uncle Trip said this can be fixed, but he won't tell me how."

"Well, he wants you to figure it out by yourself." Archer glanced over at his older child with equal parts affection and exasperation. "You're a smart girl. Just focus." He knew that Lily's project had less to do with fixing the injector and more to do with keeping her out of trouble for at least a short period of time. Between his daughter and Lorian, they all had their hands full.

Sometimes Archer thought that some cosmic force had, for a joke, shuffled the children. Lily was a miniature Trip: a brilliant budding-engineer at twelve, with a dangerously curious mind and frighteningly little impulse control. Her mantra seemed to consist of variations of, "I wonder what would happen if . . .?" There were few components on the ship that Lily had not at least tried to disassemble, or to combine in new and interesting ways. Archer had long since gotten used to the cold knot of dread in his stomach that occurred whenever he had gone without seeing or speaking to his daughter for more than a few hours. Silence, in her case, was ominous.

The only saving grace was that Lily's best friend was Lorian, Trip and T'Pol's fourteen year old son. Archer knew that it was only Lorian's steadying presence, his more cautious personality, that kept them from getting into even more scrapes than they did. When Archer looked at Lorian, he saw Trip (except for the ears)—sandy hair, deep blue eyes, easy smile, but when the boy spoke, it was with T'Pol's thoughtful deliberation.

Being half-Vulcan, Lorian could generally calculate the likely outcome of Lily's actions, and spent a great deal of energy trying to talk her out of reprogramming ship's systems. When he could, his mild manner soothed her disappointment; when he couldn't, he shared in the inevitable dressing down that resulted. Usually it was the Chief Engineer who handled discipline, mainly because it was his department that was typically the target of their schemes, but also because the captain's punishment would inevitably be ten times worse.

To their credit, Lorian's and Lily's ideas were almost always sound in conception, if not in execution. Like the time they attempted to give Archer's data padd a voice; the solicitous voice they chose would actually have been very helpful, if they could have found a way to keep it from narrating each of the million separate functions the computer performed per second.

But Lorian was in his glory when he stood side by side with Archer in the Command Center. The astral map of the Expanse was now, after a decade and a half, minutely detailed. The mysterious spheres, slightly fewer now than there would be in a century, still emitted data, only a fraction of which they would ever understand in their lifetimes. Day after day they worked, analyzing, calculating, looking for something, anything, that would give them even a slight advantage when the Xindi probe was launched toward Earth a hundred years from now. Archer's obsession was now becoming Lorian's as well.

If Lily was Trip's shadow, and Lorian was Archer's, then Archer guessed it was only fair that his younger child, six year old Jon-Henry, essentially belonged to T'Pol. Oddly enough, although he was the spitting image of his father, with his brown hair and green eyes, Jon-Henry was as Ikaaran as he could be in personality. After having spent the first six weeks of his life hovering between life and death in a Sickbay incubator (the same incubator that had sustained Porthos during the Kretassian Crisis), Jon-Henry had started talking early and had never stopped. His first, second, and third words had been "Why?", "How?", and "Whassat?"

He could out-talk his mother, which was a feat in and of itself. He questioned everything in a wonderingly curious manner that was endearing for the first five minutes, and maddening the rest of the time.

Until he discovered T'Pol.

The Vulcan's limitless patience became a perfect match for Jon-Henry's infinite questions. As she had with Lorian, T'Pol spent many hours teaching the child discipline and direction, so that his many questions led him to deeper understanding, instead of just creating noise. Occasionally, a basic "How come?" from the child would lead her to suspect long-held scientific assumptions. He was a constant reminder for her to "keep an open mind." She had confided to Archer with some surprise that humans might be capable of embracing a great deal more logic than she had previously expected, if they were trained from infancy.

His mother, Esilia, didn't mind at all. It was customary for Ikaaran children to have an avyah, a guardian from birth who guided them through life and took responsibility for making most of the major decisions affecting the child. She considered T'Pol to be Jon-Henry's _avyah_. And since she had always known that T'Pol had been Archer's first choice for a mate, all those years ago, it was only fitting, in her opinion, that the Vulcan would end up helping him raise his son. The cosmos really did have a sense of balance.

* * *

"Explain to me again, will you, why you thought it would be a good idea to go into the catwalk?" Trip's southern drawl was more pronounced than it had been in twenty years, he was so angry. "Maybe the fifth time you tell me, it will make some damn sense."

Lorian and Lily stood silent, hands behind backs, eyes down. The entire Engineering area was quiet; even the reactor seemed to whisper.

"ANSWER ME!" Trip thundered, his fury made even more evident by the fact that he never yelled.  
The words echoed off of every solid surface in the room. Even Ensign Massaro flinched. She had found the two trying to override the security code to the catwalk that ran along the starboard nacelle. Now, she wasn't sure if she had consigned them to a worse fate.

Lily cleared her throat. "We were learning about atmospheric disturbances. Our teacher told us about the time the whole crew had to stay in the catwalk for a week." She peeked up, but Trip's face was still livid. "We wanted to see what it looked like."

"Did your teacher neglect to tell you that you would get your ASSES FRIED if you went into the catwalk with the warp reactor on-line?"

"We, um." Lily ran out of words.

"We weren't going to go all the way in, Father," Lorian put in reasonably.

"Oh, you weren't." Trip ambled over to the comm. "Tucker to the Bridge."

"Archer here." The young people glanced at each other, hearts sinking.

"I've got the Gremlins down here in Engineering. Seems they were trying to access the starboard catwalk."

"I'm on my way."

By the time the captain reached Engineering, the kids were trembling. Trip didn't usually defer discipline to the commanding officer; everybody in the room understood that this was going to be ugly. Lily and Lorian had even heard rumors, as all the children had, that the captain had once gotten so mad at a crewmember that he had decompressed him in an airlock and then shot him out into space. They both decided at that moment that the rumor was probably true.

The captain listened as Massaro related the events. He walked around the two of them, as if inspecting them. Finally, he spoke, using his dreaded "quiet voice."

"Do you think that security protocols are in place just for fun?" His green eyes glittered.

"No, sir," they whispered.

"Or that when the captain and the Chief Engineer tell you that certain places are off limits, we must be mistaken?"

Mutely, they shook their heads.

Archer lifted his chin and stared off to the side for a moment. "Well, clearly you believe that you know more than we do, despite the fact that Commander Tucker and I have been running this ship for twenty years." He paced three steps, then swung around and paced back. "Perhaps it is time you started learning to take over." He stopped abruptly, eyes flicking over their casual clothes. "Go change into something more suitable, and meet me on the Bridge in fifteen minutes."

"Sir?" Lorian croaked. The Bridge was strictly off-limits to children. Period.

The captain fixed him with a cold glare. "Something wrong with your hearing, mister?"

"N-no, sir."

"Fifteen minutes."

Fourteen and a half minutes later, the lift doors opened, and two scared, awed adolescents stepped onto the Bridge of Enterprise for the first time. Archer let them hang there for a moment. T'Pol busied herself at her console. Trip had already commed her with a brief explanation, ending with a cryptic, "Cap'n's handling it."

The captain rose slowly from his chair and beckoned Lorian forward. His voice was a shade warmer, but still hard, as he said, "Since you think you know how this ship should be run, I think it's only fair that you start your command training now. It is the captain's job to monitor everything that goes on. That is what you will do for this shift. Unfortunately, there's only one chair, and it's mine, so you'll have to stand." He positioned Lorian to the left and slightly behind the command chair, facing the blank view screen. Then he turned to his daughter.

"And you, Miss Archer, have a natural gift for engineering, so here you go. The Chief Engineer is rarely on the Bridge, but when he is, he monitors ship's functions from tactical." He took her tightly by the upper arm and pulled her over to stand next to Reed. "He doesn't have a seat, so you'll have to stand, as well." He strode back down to his chair and sat. "Any requests to leave your posts will be denied." He watched the realization sink in that they would be standing there for the next nine hours.

As he picked up his padd, he caught T'Pol's eye. Her face was perfectly neutral, so he knew she didn't disapprove.

By the end of the shift, he had to admit he was impressed. Sore from standing, exhausted, and probably dying to use the bathroom, neither Lorian nor Lily had whimpered or complained. Lily had pointed out a misalignment in the tactical array, and had spent about an hour walking through the solution with Reed. Lorian had stood computing astral distances in his head, from time to time using a finger to draw numbers in the air, until Archer had finally taken pity on the boy and given him a padd to work on.

As for Archer, he had a splitting headache from squinting at the padd's tiny blue screen all day. He much preferred nowadays to work in his Ready Room, with its full size monitor, to get through the mounds of paperwork that still consumed his days. He could barely make out the words as he plowed his way through department logs, inventory lists, requisitions, and the hundred other details that were his daily responsibility.

And his butt was numb.

Finally, he spoke. "Lorian, Lily, you're dismissed. Go get some dinner." The children left the Bridge quickly, if stiffly, their painful lessons learned.

Archer groaned loudly as he heaved himself from the chair. He shook the pins and needles out of his left leg as he limped over to the science station. "These children are trying to kill me."

T'Pol answered thoughtfully. "It seems that we have been remiss. Clearly, we need to begin training the children to take over our duties. Perhaps we should formalize the process. An apprenticeship."

She was right, as usual, Archer mused. He had been running on the assumption that the senior staff would always be the same. But while T'Pol could easily replace him as captain, who would come behind her? Or Trip? Or Phlox? "Can you put together a training program, a schedule of some sort? Maybe if we give these kids actual jobs, they'll stay out of trouble." He rubbed his burning eyes.

T'Pol cocked her head slightly. "That would be a welcome change of pace," she observed.

* * *

"Esilia to Archer."

The comm interrupted the captain's concentration. Sprawled across the bed in his uncharacteristically empty and quiet quarters, he was enjoying an old water polo match. The fact that he had seen it approximately ten times already, and was well aware of which team eventually won, didn't diminish his enjoyment one bit. He reached over. "Archer."

"Would you mind meeting me at the scout?"

He sighed. After the day he'd had, the last thing he wanted was to deal with some mechanical malfunction. But he rarely got to spend any time alone with his wife nowadays; there was always a kid or three underfoot. It had been a while since they'd watched a movie or even taken a late night shipwalk together. "On my way," he replied, and fished around on the floor for his boots.  
Launch Bay One was dark, and he made his way mostly by memory to Esilia's ship, parked just on the other side of Shuttle Pod One. Over the years, he had become accustomed to her hanging out here, because it was the one place on board she could crank up both the heat and humidity to Ikaaran comfort. Keeping an environment of thirty-eight degrees and ninety percent humidity was a good way to ensure that no human would disturb you.

The crew had come to refer to the scout ship as The Seal, a play on Esilia's name that she didn't quite get. She often commented on the humans' tendency to shorten names, an odd habit. Jonathan became "Jon"; Hoshi was shortened to "Hosh"; even Charles was somehow transformed into "Trip," a progression which, try as she might, she could not follow. She finally realized that the humans didn't even _hear_ the pronounced pause in between the two syllables of T'Pol's name, so the whole thing got contracted and lost its musical quality. While she had stopped minding that everyone called her daughter Lily, instead of her full name (once she had learned that a lily was a particularly beautiful Earth flower, she really couldn't protest anymore), she insisted that her son be called "Jon-Henry," a name that her husband hadn't been too keen on. He had felt it a bit too long a label for such a tiny baby, and had tried to shorten it to Jay, but Esilia wouldn't have it. Eventually the name, and the boy, had grown on him.

But now the children were wearing him out.

Esilia heard the soft knock on the hatch of the scout and released the lock.

_Jghonn_ stepped in, looking tired and distracted. He immediately began to sweat in the—for him—tropical heat. She stayed in the shadows, only the glow from the instrument panel breaking up the darkness.

"I hear you had a challenging day," she said softly.

He flapped the bottom of his shirt, which was already beginning to stick to his skin. "Your daughter . . ."

She snickered. "Oh, so she's my daughter when she exasperates you." Approaching, she slid behind him and began to massage his tense shoulders. She could feel the immediate tingle of contact, a sensation that had not diminished over the past fifteen years. Her hands slipped under his casual tee-shirt, skimming over still-solid muscle and smooth skin. His fatigue began to give way to desire.

Tipping his head back, he murmured, "I think I'm getting too old for this job, Seel. I don't have the patience I used to."

The hem of his shirt rose higher, and she bent her head to trace his spine with her tongue.  
"Dealing with children is completely different from commanding a ship full of green crewmembers. They'll learn." She pulled the shirt gently over his head and kissed his shoulder. "I probably would have keel-hauled them both."

"The thought crossed my mind," he groaned, leaning back into her. Then he froze. "You're not wearing any clothes," he accused, feeling the electricity of her skin against his.

"Very observant, fly-boy."

"The kids, Jon-Henry -"

"Is with his friend Toru, and Lily went to movie night." She reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his communicator. "Don't need this." He heard it thump into a dark corner.

He turned in her arms. "How much time do we have?" he asked in a gruff voice, lowering her to the deck. She had thoughtfully laid a duvet down for the full seduction effect.

She chuckled against his mouth. "Do you really think that, after today's events, anybody wants to disturb you for the rest of the night?"

"They're probably hoping you'll put me in a better mood," he answered, trailing his lips down her throat, and then lower.

She moaned softly. "I'll do my best."


	13. Of Life And Legacy

Esilia shooed Lily and Jon-Henry out the door just as Archer emerged from the shower. They darted off, eager to grab some breakfast before school started. Their father offered a muffled goodbye, his head covered by a damp towel. When the door closed behind them, he sidled over to his wife, clad only in his briefs, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

She looked him over appreciatively. She knew that, by human standards, he was considered slightly more than middle-aged at sixty-eight, but his body was still fit and firm. He still carried himself with command poise, even though his rank was mostly ceremonial now. As the first generation of children born on board Enterprise reached adulthood and assumed working positions, he was no longer called upon to make daily unilateral decisions. The crew still deferred to his judgment, though, and where there were disagreements, his was the last word.

In the eighteen months since Trip had died, Archer had slowly come back to himself. Esilia had feared that he never would, that she had lost him to his despair and grief. From the moment when Archer had reached Engineering to find T'Pol kneeling beside a badly burned Trip, fingers spread and touching his face in a Vulcan goodbye, he had teetered on the edge of desolation. For the first time, Dr. Phlox had offered no miracle, ethical or otherwise, to save the day, and within hours, Trip was gone.

Enterprise had lost not only its Chief Engineer, its heart, that day; it had also, for a long time, lost its First Officer and its captain. Because T'Pol and Archer had both withdrawn into their own separate worlds, each grieving a friend and companion, impossible to reach, uncertain how to go on. Esilia had stepped into the vacuum, gathering the three bewildered children to herself, providing stability to their shattered world.

Now, a year and a half later, T'Pol had fully resumed her duties, dividing her time between science officer on the Bridge and teacher in the schoolroom. In fact, all of the senior staff, as they used to be known, Reed, Travis, and Hoshi included, now taught intensive courses in their respective crafts, rushing to pass along what they had learned through experience and instinct.

Esilia folded Jon-Henry's sleep clothes and placed them at the foot of the bed. Four people living in a space designed for one meant constant tidying, she mused, and she was the only one to whom it mattered. Archer came up behind her, reached around, and took a shirt from her, tossing it aside and thereby proving her point. His lips found that sensitive spot just below her ear, and his arms enveloped her.

Even after all these years, sixteen since she'd first met him, the human scent of him, soap and salt, mostly, could still cause her heart to race. She never regretted, not even for one day, her decision to leave Ikaar and find Enterprise. She knew now that she could never have been happy on her home world. She was grateful to space for giving her this, at least.

"Don't you have to get to the Bridge?" she asked, as he slid her robe down her arms.

"I'm semi-retired, remember?" he responded, rubbing his newly-shaved cheek along her shoulder. Her skin was ultra-sensitive this morning, almost painful; somehow, he knew this and caressed her with the lightest touch. "I make my own hours."

She kissed the dent in the middle of his chin. Someday, he would admit to her that it really _wasn't_ an old water polo injury. She knew he thought she still believed that old fib, and a thousand other half-serious explanations he had given over the years just to get out from under her questions. She supposed she couldn't be too put out; he'd never caught on to the fact that if you did the math, she was much older than he was.

Her hands skimmed along his muscular frame, still damp from his shower. There was a question in his eyes; he was aware that she had been more tired than usual lately, and even though he was roused and ready to go, he would take no for an answer.

She didn't say no.

It was mid-morning, nearly ten-hundred hours, before Archer slipped from underneath his sleeping wife and slid out of bed. He washed his face and gathered his clothes quietly, trying not to wake her. She was typically a light sleeperâ€”all those years aboard a one-person scout ship had left its imprintâ€”but this morning, she didn't stir, even when he snapped on the desk lamp. Out of habit, he pulled on his jersey, jumpsuit, and boots. After twenty-two years, he still couldn't get used to being "on duty" in casual clothes, although he had gradually relaxed the dress requirement for the rest of the crew. He cast an eye toward the bed, rumpled now, and froze.

There were blotches, lavender marks, on Esilia's arms and shoulders. _Those shouldn't be there_ , he thought, confused. Their lovemaking, both last night and this morning, had been gentle and easy, Ikaaran style rather than human. He couldn't imagine that he had lost control so much that he had left bruises, and he didn't recall her complaining. The warm feeling of contentment left him abruptly, and he contemplated waking her up. No, he decided he would let her sleep. He could bring it up later.

He was about to leave the cabin when he remembered his padd. He still had the Ikaaran database on it. He could do some private research.

* * *

Archer slowed down as he recognized the light footsteps that were gaining on him. Tâ€™Pol appeared by his side, wearing one of her trademark catsuits, today in deep pink. She still had the figure for it. â€œGood morning, Captain,â€ she greeted him pleasantly, completely at ease now using human conventions. 

â€œWhatâ€™s the good word, Tâ€™Pol?â€ Archer loved asking the Vulcan rhetorical questions, just to see if sheâ€™d bite and try to answer. 

Today, she didnâ€™t. â€œI have just spent three hours trying to convey theoretical physics to a group of teenagers who are more interested in the Class M planet weâ€™re orbiting. I may need to visit Dr. Phlox.â€ 

Archer laughed. â€œWell, our scans show no viruses, pathogens, or boogiemen, so we may be able to start sending shore leave parties down in a day or so.â€ The whole crew was practically vibrating with excitement over the prospect of walking on actual soil for the first time in two decades. None of the children of Enterprise had ever been off-ship. 

â€œNo rock people?â€ Tâ€™Pol asked quietly. Archer stopped short to stare at her. She rarely made jokes, and almost never dropped references to Trip into conversations. But here she was, clearly referring to the first planet Enterprise had ever visited, the one Starfleet had unimaginatively named â€œArcherâ€™s Planet,â€ where the landing party had succumbed to some psychotropic pollen. Trip had held her at gun point, claiming that she was in collusion with creatures in the rocks only he could see. 

â€œWeâ€™ll pack an antidote, just in case,â€ Archer answered with a slight smile. â€œDo you want to be in the first party?â€

â€œActually, I may stay aboard and take advantage of the quiet. And you?â€

The captain indicated the padd in his hand. â€œI have some reading to do.â€

The next morning, at the captainâ€™s insistence, Tâ€™Pol ended up piloting the second shuttle, filled to the brim with chattering children and their chaperones. The sight of the children piling out of the pod, shrieking with excitement, almost caused her to smile. For the first time in their lives, they felt natural sunlight on their skin, and sharp blades of grass under their shoes. They ran until they were breathless, with no walls in sight, then flopped down upon the ground to gaze up at real clouds. As she studied their faces, she recalled the bright, wide smile of her husband, then her nemesis, as he bunched that first landing party together and took their picture. 

She intercepted Lorian as he pulled out his scanner and began to study the surrounding area. â€œSon,â€ she said, â€œwhy donâ€™t you simply enjoy the environment.â€

He looked at her in surprise. â€œThese readings may prove valuable, Mother.â€

She replied with Tripâ€™s expression, in Tripâ€™s voice, as she eased the scanner from his hand. â€œGo. Live a little.â€ She pointed a few meters away, where Lily was playing tag with Jon-Henry and several of his friends. â€œThe data will wait.â€ He eyed her for a moment more, then dashed off, grinning Tripâ€™s grin.

Late in the afternoon, the shuttle pod landed and Archer stepped out, sporting his NX-01 cap and aviator shades. He stayed only an hour, though, before taking a group back to the ship. The captain had been as enthusiastic as anybody else about walking on a reasonable facsimile of terra firma the day before; this morning, however, when the groups had assembled, Archer had been conspicuously absent. And now, he hadnâ€™t even stayed to play. Tâ€™Pol felt a small niggle of worry.

* * *

Archer studied the monitor readings, swallowing the urge to take out his frustration and anger on the Denobulan doctor. More damn secrets, more information kept from him. First, his science officer's Pa'nar Syndrome, now his wife's radiation sickness. The doctor stood silent, aware that his normal response of "patient confidentiality," while perfectly appropriate, was likely to set the captain off completely.

"When were you going to tell me?" Archer asked quietly, holding Esilia's gaze. The information displayed on the medical monitor was consistent with his research. The doctor's readings confirmed it; Esilia was dying from radiation poisoning. He looked with disgust at the fingerprints he had unintentionally left on her bare arm, even as he had helped her lift herself onto the biobed. The weeping bruises testified to the irreversible cellular degeneration that signaled the last stages of the disease.

" _Jghonn_ ," she said regretfully, taking his hand, "how could I?" She squeezed his fingers, but he was careful not to exert any pressure back.

"Did we do this to her?" Archer asked Phlox, still unable to look at the doctor. Instead, he rested his gaze on the floor. "Living among humans, in a human environment, I mean."

Phlox shook his head. "No, Captain, it is more likely the result of years of travel in the scout ship. She's probably been the safest on Enterprise, these past fifteen years, with its more effective shielding." He slipped a hypospray out of his pocket, with a movement halfway between a twitch and a shrug. "I can make you comfortable here in Sickbay, Esiliaâ€”"

"I want to go back to my quarters," she interrupted, raising a hand for her husband to help her off the bed.

Phlox started to protest, but Archer silenced him with an angry glare. Pitching his voice low, the captain said, "You knew that every time I touched her I damaged her more, and you didn't warn me. I don't care about Denobulan ethics. That was just cruel."

* * *

Archer lifted Lily off the bed and placed her on the couch, still asleep. He closed the book she had been reading to her mother and knelt down by the side of the bed. He had taken to sleeping on the floor, afraid that he would roll over in the night and touch Esilia. Every contact nowadays caused her pain; she was now so sensitive that even the bed linens tore her skin.

She turned to him and smiled. "I wish you would just hold me, _Jghonn_."

"You know I can't do that," he answered gently. "You hurt everywhere."

Mischief glinted in her eyes. "Well, not everywhere. . ." A smile tugged at her mouth as she recalled their favorite movie and tapped the smooth space just above her left eye. "Here's good." Archer kissed her there. "And this spot," she pointed to the tip of her nose. Another kiss. Just like Indiana Jones, she impishly indicated her mouth. "How about here?" He grinned, on to her game, and gave her a third-date kiss. If it caused her any discomfort, she didn't let on.

"I think you're beautiful," she commented when he let her come up for air.

"Well, your standards are a little suspect," he retorted, "considering you don't have any, you know, eyebrows."

"I hope I've made you happy, even though I wasn't your first choice." Her long eyelashes swept down to hide her uncertain expression.

"You weren't my first choice," he agreed, "but you were by far the best choice I ever made in my life." He lowered his head to kiss her again, feeling his time with her slipping away. Pulling back, he rested his head next to hers on the pillow. "You know, I never got around to reading about Ikaaran, um, . . . well, what would you like me to do with you, when you're . . . gone? Is there a ceremony, or . . ." He trailed off uncomfortably.

She lifted a hand and played with his hair. "Well, in order to do it right, you'd have to find twenty meters of yellow silk and wrap my body in it. Then find a planet with a red sun, and bury me in the shade of a tall tree near a river. Then you need to recite all the verses of the Book of Light."

"How many verses are there?" Archer wanted to know.

"Only ten thousand, four hundred sixty-seven. It should only take you about a month and a half, by your reckoning, if Hoshi translates it properly."

Archer stared at her, mouth open. "Are you _kidding_ me?" A month and a half in orbit around some damn planet, spouting poetry?

She smiled. "Yes, _Jghonn_ , I am." It took a moment before enlightenment crossed his face, and he scowled playfully. "Who says I can't tell a joke."

"Trip would be proud," he conceded, his voice breaking only a little as he spoke his friend's name. He stroked the ridge of her nose tenderly. "Of both of us. Did I ever tell you the one about the guy who's caught in a flood . . .?"

* * *

One good thing about serving aboard a starship was the ability to jettison certain customs prevalent on Earth. In Archer's culture, family and friends gathered after a funeral at the mourners' home, to eat and drink and reminisce about the deceased. He always thought that was a ridiculous practice; why should the bereaved have the task of feeding and entertaining everybody? So, instead of a long, drawn-out ordeal, the crew and their families gathered in the launch bay to say goodbye to their adopted crewmate, with little ceremony.

The crew's support was palpable as Archer simply laid a hand on the hatch of the ship while Hoshi, Esilia's first and closest human friend, read a lovely poem and Kelly sang an ancient hymn with no accompanying music. Afterwards, Archer retired to his quarters to be alone. Travis programmed the scout, carrying Esilia's body, to enter a decaying orbit around a small, uninhabited planet. A few hours later, alerted by the senior helmsman, Archer, Lily, and Jon-Henry watched the short, sharp flare of Esilia entering the atmosphere from the window of their quarters. It was done.

The door chime rang at twenty-two hundred hours. Archer knew who it was without even thinking about it. "Come," he called from his position on the bed, propped up against the pillows, pinned by the dead weight of his sleeping eight-year-old son. His fingers unconsciously played with the silver ring and the teardrop pendant, dragging them both back and forth along the chain he still wore around his neck.

T'Pol entered, carrying a covered plate and a small item. "I assume you have not eaten since this morning, Captain. I have brought you some fruit and bread."

Archer smiled slightly. Was there anybody in the galaxy now who knew him better than this woman? "Thanks. Come in and have a seat. I would get up, but. . ." He gestured with his chin at his son, who was sprawled across his father's chest. "He's had a rough night. I think it's finally hit him that she's gone." In reality, Jon-Henry had broken down just after Esilia's burn up, and had proved that, although he had inherited an Ikaaran personality, he had also inherited the human ability to cry.

In the dim light, T'Pol could see the tracks of dried salt lining Archer's cheek from eye to jaw. Jon-Henry wasn't the only one who'd had a difficult evening. Perching on the desk chair, she told him, "Lily is with Lorian. He promised he would 'keep an eye' on her."

Archer nodded. "He's the best thing for her right now." He let his eyes drift to the window as he mused, "He'll be captain of this ship someday."

T'Pol wasn't in a frame of mind to think about the distant future, so she remained silent. After a moment, Archer said softly, "I miss her already."

"Yes," T'Pol replied, and it wasn't clear if she was acknowledging his loss or remembering her own.

"I don't suppose it's any easier, even if you're Vulcan," he observed. She just looked at him, and he had his answer. "Still, I . . . I had fifteen years of deep companionshipâ€”I never expected that. And I've got two beautiful kids; I never thought I'd have any." He tilted his head a little. "You were right, all those years ago."

"About a great many things, it seems," she replied and anyone who didn't know her well wouldn't be able to tell she was teasing. He chuckled and shifted Jon-Henry to a more comfortable position on his shoulder.

T'Pol reached for the small square object lying on top of the plate. "Some time ago, you gave me something to help . . . soothe me after a distressing incident." She held up a music disc. "I have found it to be very helpful over the years, especially in more recent months." She gestured to the audio system. "May I?"

Curious and touched, Archer nodded. A few moments later, the sound of strings, percussion, and falling rain filled the room. He had forgotten this symphony. That T'Pol had treasured it all these years brought tears to his eyes.

The two old friends, widow and widower, sat in the dim room, contemplating the rhythm of falling rain and minor chords. Wasn't it strange, Archer thought, that of all the beings on board, T'Pol was the one with whom he shared the most in common. Both had loved off-worlders (he had no doubt of her feelings for Trip, although she might be hard-pressed to admit it) and had lost them much too soon. Both had sacrificed everything for the ship and its impossible undertaking. And now they were both fixed on the long-term goal, a mother and father striving to leave a legacy for Enterprise's children: knowledge and faith enough to complete its once and future mission, to save humanity. They could not fail. Whatever it took, they could not fail.

* * *

It felt strange, almost surreal, ambling down the corridor of this hundred and twenty year old Enterprise. Captain Jonathan Archer watched the Denobulan boy and the human girl race down the corridor and out of sight, and he turned to his great-granddaughter, Karyn. Her delicate nose ridge was nothing he'd ever seen before, but her almond eyes and dark hair reminded him of Hoshi, her sure-footed stride was all Travis, and she smiled his own smile back at him. What combination of events could possibly have resulted in this exquisite creature? His curiosity got the better of him as he gazed at this future piece of his history, and observed gently, "You're not entirely human yourself."

"My great-grandmother was Ikaaran," Karyn answered, smiling sweetly.

"Was that . . ." He hesitated, dying to know but completely paralyzed to ask.

"Your wife," she finished for him, kindly. "Her name was Esilia. You rescued her ship from an anomaly field."

He couldn't go there. He just couldn't. To know that some version of him had a wife, a familyâ€”he wasn't ready to deal with that, not after the choices he'd made, the things that he'd done. So he stepped back to safe ground, as they resumed their tour of the ship. "You know, finding your ship explains a few things. . ." Karyn didn't press. She simply accepted the change of topic with grace.

As Karyn led him down a particularly familiar corridor, he thought about the alternate Jonathan Archer, the husband, the father, the one who had wandered the Expanse like the Ancient Mariner. _Did you find contentment, completion_ , he wanted to know. _Did you have a good life? Did you discover what you were looking for? I hope you didâ€”I hope you were truly happyâ€”because then maybe there is a chance for me, someday_.


End file.
